


Coffee

by JackVelvet



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman Begins (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-25
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackVelvet/pseuds/JackVelvet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffee. Crane. Killer Croc. Coffee. Crane. Cover-up. Cover blown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050803) by [JackVelvet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackVelvet/pseuds/JackVelvet), [Sachikowolff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sachikowolff/pseuds/Sachikowolff)



> This work was originally published on LiveJournal and Fanfiction.net.
> 
> From LJ Author's Note:
> 
>  
> 
> _I started this fic a long time ago (2008), and only recently decided to finish it._
> 
>  
> 
> _This is based almost entirely on the first two Nolan movies (as of this note, the third movie is allegedly in production). The DCU elements are for character purposes only; I did not want to invent new criminals when there are already a plethora of established criminals to choose from._
> 
>  
> 
>   _I've altered Jonathan Crane's history slightly. In Batman Begins, I got the feeling that Crane never directly murdered anyone, which is contrary to what has become his established history._
> 
>  
> 
> _Back to DCU. I really liked the realistic Killer Croc portrayed in the graphic novel "Joker" (Author: Brian Azzarello / Illustrator: Lee Bermejo). Since Nolan took such a realistic look at the Batman universe already, I felt that my Croc had to be realistic too, so I drew upon the version found in "Joker."_
> 
>  
> 
> **Disclaimer:**
> 
>  
> 
> This is a fan-work, not a canon work. I'd like to acknowledge the following people and entities for their hands in bringing the Batman franchise to the world: Bob Kane, DC Comics, Warner Bros., Christopher Nolan, Jonathan Nolan, David S. Goyer, and all other artists, writers, directors, and so on that have contributed but have not been named. This work is based upon the source material created by those mentioned and unmentioned.
> 
> Writing this work has been for fun only. It's like playing with Batman toys, but using words instead of plastic action figures.
> 
>  
> 
> **Usage:**
> 
>  
> 
> For entertainment and non-commercial usage only.
> 
> The text of this work is not to be shared or re-posted, in whole or in part, without my express permission; this includes re-bloggable "excerpts" on sites like tumblr. Downloading for personal use on e-readers is fine. Please share links and credit the source. Thank you!

**Coffee**  
by Jack Velvet

 _Le Café_ was one of those places that any normal person wouldn't notice on any normal day. Located on Elmwood in Uptown Gotham (just a right and a left at the second light off of the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge), the place was unnoticed by most. Sure, the snobbish upper class enjoyed their fresh, three-star-or-higher meals, but stooping down to the hippy ideals of organics and save-the-Earth mottos wasn't exactly their thing. The Richie-riches were only a block over, and the artsy-fartsy brooding types were on the other side of main street. Simply put, _Le Café_ was lovingly founded in the wrong part of town. Business held up enough to keep it open, since the Elmwood area consisted of a few homes and businesses run by people who weren't so corrupt and had their noses held at nose level. Thank goodness too, or else a very hungry and very tired Bruce Wayne never would have stopped in.

  


Elmwood was one of the few streets in Gotham that didn't require a person to pay seventy-five cents at a parking meter if they wanted to nab a bite to eat. It wasn't as if Bruce couldn't afford it, he simply didn't carry pocket change on him. Coins were too clanky and really didn't fit into his idea of stealth. So the billionaire parked his new sports car (as his previous one was purposely totaled) and hopped into the shop, unaware of how coincidental-slash-fateful this action would turn out to be.

  


The place was refreshing, decorated in earthy tones of green, beige, and brown. An older couple, probably children of the '60s, sat by the window, and aside from them, there was only one other man in the place, sitting alone in a corner reading a newspaper.

  


Bruce stepped up to the counter, somewhat thankful that no one had recognized him yet (because Lucius would just kill him if he were late and asleep for another important board meeting), and quickly skimmed the chalkboard menu hung above the coffee machines.

  


The aroma was overwhelming. As Bruce directed his attention toward the many muffins (why they baked so many for so few customers in the morning was a mystery to him), two young ladies greeted him. One of them, a cute little red-head named Tara, began blushing, and pushed the other forward.

  


“What can I get you?” asked the other, a brunette.

  


“You have a lot of muffins here,” Bruce said.

  


“That's not exactly an answer.”

  


_Snarky,_ Bruce thought. He looked at her name-tag. _Lucy, that's not too common anymore._ “What's the little leaf by the name mean?”

  


“It means that it's vegan-friendly. No eggs, no honey, no milk.”

  


“Honey isn't vegan?”

  


“Bees make it.”

  


“What about regular muffins?”

  


“Anything without a leaf.”

  


“You're being mean, Luce!” Tara whispered, still bright red.

  


“A leafless blueberry then,” he said with a tired smile. A yawn escaped him. “And whatever you have here that gives you a lot of energy.”

  


“That's the Supra Double-Shot,” Tara answered. “I can make you a large, which has six shots of espresso.”

  


“Sure,” the man agreed. _I really shouldn't be drinking all of this caffeine. It's not healthy._

  


“Iced, or hot?” Tara asked.

  


“Probably hot, Tara,” Lucy assumed, eyes rolling. “It's not exactly _warm_ out there anymore.”

  


This Lucy character piqued Bruce's interest. A little bit of a fireball, with gorgeous green eyes. Probably a bit too young for him, maybe mid-twenties. The only way to flirt with her type was to give all of that snark back.

  


“Cold, please,” he said, a daring smile directed at Lucy. Those green eyes rolled right back again.

  


“You staying here and eating?” Lucy asked, her tone suggesting that he leave. Eager to cash this customer out, she poised a finger over the register, ready to press the “I've got their money” button.

  


Tara waited for the answer just as eagerly, but for opposite reasons.

  


“Hmm....” Bruce pondered. He looked around the café again, wondering if he really wanted to take his food and run, or make it a daily routine. The service was both great and terrible, but there were healthy options for those mornings when he woke up too late to eat anything Alfred could prepare. He wasn't sure how those vegan things would taste, though. Mostly, he wondered if he wanted this tiny slice of normal in his life. That's when the man in the corner lowered his paper.

  


It was Jonathan Crane.

  


“I'll stay here,” he answered.

  


Tara was elated. Lucy's finger dropped, and the cash drawer popped open. She pushed the tip jar forward as he paid. Overpaid, really, because getting change for a fifty wasn't exactly nice to do to people who just opened shop.

  


“Here you are, Mr. Wayne!” Tara said, handing over a plate and a lovingly prepared Supra Double-Shot.

  


“You know this guy?” Lucy asked her.

  


“That's Bruce Wayne, Luce!” she whispered back, though no one in the shop would have cared if they'd heard her.

  


Lucy arched an eyebrow at the playboy, her disgust for him growing. The victorious, smug smile on his face only amplified the feeling.

  


“Why thank you...” Bruce said, leaning over to pretend to read Tara's name-tag (even though he had noticed it earlier), “...Tara.”

  


“Oh my gosh!” she replied, eyes wide with excitement.

  


“Great, be a little louder, would ya?” Lucy elbowed her. “I know business ain't exactly happening, but I don't really want a bunch of little Tara's coming in just to see Bruce Wayne.”

  


“You're assuming I'm coming back?”

  


“Yeah, Lucy! If you're mean to him he won't come back!”

  


“She won't tell anyone,” Bruce suggested. “Tara seems like a good egg.”

  


“Oh, you're right, Mr. Wayne! I won't tell anyone. We'll make sure you can come here all the time and no one will bother you!”

  


“You're so naïve, Tara,” Lucy said.

  


“Thanks ladies,” Bruce said, walking away as he sipped his drink. “Great drink, Tara.” The girl almost fainted.

  


Flirting and such out of the way, Bruce switched to detective mode. _So, Jonathan Crane didn't leave Gotham after that case. What's he doing here out in the open?_

  


“Nice day,” Bruce said, choosing the table next to Crane.

  


“A bit cold,” Crane replied, turning the page and folding over the paper. The former doctor seemed displeased.

  


“First signs of winter. I wonder if it's going to snow?”

  


“Tomorrow, or so they say.”

  


_This muffin is good._ Bruce took two more bites in silence before saying, “Gotham winters are nice, don't you think?”

  


“Why did you sit by me?” Crane asked,finally acknowledging Bruce.

  


_That's right. Blue. Doesn't look like contacts. Maybe the glasses were part of his game._ “Seems like a community place. Just making chit-chat.”

  


“There's hardly more than ten people in here at a time. Not exactly a community place.”

  


_He's here often. Maybe he lives nearby._ “Too bad. The muffins here are great. Cute help too.” Another bite of blueberry.

  


“Ah, that's why you look familiar. Do you expect me to talk to you because you're Bruce Wayne?”

  


_No suit. Plain, nondescript clothes._ _He's either hiding something or just hiding._ “Nope, you just seemed like a nice guy.”

  


“You interrupted my reading of the newspaper.” Jonathan turned his head back in that cocky manner that he was known for, setting his eyes back on the print of the first section. “Plus, you're wrong.”

  


“Seems I'm late for a meeting,” Bruce said, checking his watch. Crane didn't notice, because he didn't care to look.

  


“Good.”

  


* * *

  


The police scanner led him to a 24-hour convenience store across the bridge to the Narrows. From the sound of it, the clerk was alive at the time of the call, but Batman couldn't determine if this was the case without getting closer. And he didn't want to get closer before finding a stealthy way to do so.

  


Two hoodlums guarded the store, one in the driver's seat of the getaway car, and one just outside the vehicle. Two more crooks were inside, handling the theft. Sirens wailed in the distance. Still no sign of the clerk. Batman had to act soon.

  


“Yo Squid,” said the man in the car. “You get the feelin' like we're bein' watched?”

  


“Nah, it's in your head, Ax. Ain't no one watchin' us.”

  


“The cops're gonna be here soon. Shouldn't we be pullin' round the back?”

  


“Not 'til the boss is done. We got time.”

  


Batman tossed a pebble across the street. The sound drew Ax's and Squid's eyes away from the store.

  


“What was that?”

  


“Probably just a rat,” Squid answered. “Lemme check it out. Stay in the car.”

  


Batman slipped inside. Almost. A bell on the door jingled.  


The bulkier of the two men looked up. “The hell was that?”

  


“Dunno, Boss.”

  


“Well take a fucking look,” he barked.

  


The thug stepped cautiously toward the counter, shotgun aimed low.

  


“Hey Croc,” the man said. “Clerk's still here, cowering like a dog.”

  


“Sid and Ax still outside?”

  


“Yeah.”

  


“Good. Let's blow this joint.”

  


Batman struck. The thug went down easily. The clerk howled in fright. Batman checked up on him, but now the clerk had the shotgun, and was aiming it at his chest.

  


“Don't move, you murderer!” he said.

  


_Damn it,_ Batman thought.  The city had been wary of Batman ever since the death of Harvey Dent. A “necessary evil,” he and Gordon had agreed. Still, this wasn't the first victim that was reluctant to have Batman's help.

  


The threat of being shot gave Croc the chance he needed. Batman was thrown into a display of canned goods, spilling the product across the store. He didn't give Batman a moment to stand.

  


Batman hit a freezer door hard, bruises instantly forming on his back where the handle pushed in. It gave him the opportunity to see his assailant up-close. Dark, scaly skin. Sharpened teeth, probably done by a cosmetic dental surgeon. He now had at least three things to do a background check with. Of course, he had to think of how to get out alive, first.

  


A shotgun blast reverberated through the store. The clerk cursed at the thug, who had since awakened and taken the weapon back. Luckily for the clerk, he missed the wide berth of the shot.

  


Croc hit Batman again, knocking the breath from his lungs. As Batman looked up at his target, Croc sprayed him with an aerosol. Batman winced; the mist stung his eyes, nose, and throat. Alarms went off, and armies marched through the aisles.

  


The high-pitched screeching of car tires overcame the phantom sounds in Batman's ears. Croc had escaped. Batman tried to make chase, but knew he had to check up on the clerk first.

  


“Are you hurt?” he asked him.

  


“Get the hell outta my store!” the clerk yelled.

  


Batman disappeared as the source of the sirens closed in on the location. The clerk was safe, but Croc's car was out-of-sight. Batman failed.

  


* * *

  


Bruce made it back to the cave without incident. It took a while to ditch the cops, but at least this time he didn't leave a wake of destruction behind him.

  


The elevator descended, carrying a rested and freshly dressed Alfred. The butler met Bruce beside the wardrobe that stored the Batsuit, where Bruce washed the black grease-paint from his eyes.

  


Alfred had installed a sink a few days prior, and stocked the area with several expensive facial cleansers. Two weeks ago, Bruce was so tired that he had forgotten to wash up. Alfred had a hell of a time getting the paint out of Bruce's pillow-cases. He felt the sink would serve as a reminder to Master Wayne to clean up, and so far it was working.

  


“Alfred, I need you to look up something for me.”

  


“Would you still like your breakfast?”

  


“Nothing too huge.”

  


“Perhaps just some toast and orange juice?”

  


“That'd be great.”

  


“Right away, Master Wayne.”

  


Within minutes, Alfred returned to the cave, a soft robe hanging from one arm, and a tray of Bruce's breakfast in the other.

  


“Thanks Alfred,” said Bruce, snatching the toast.

  


“What is it that you needed, Master Wayne?”

  


“I need to look up a criminal, a guy called Croc.”

  


Alfred took his place near the computer. “A description, sir?”

  


“Six three, muscular.” A sip of juice. “African-American. Some sort of skin condition that looks like scales. His teeth were sharpened too. Check medical records.” More toast. “At _least_ two-fifty. Bigger than a football player.”

  


After a few moments of typing, Alfred said, “One match. Waylon Jones. Alias: Killer Croc. Thirty-four. Former pro-wrestler. Drugs, assault, armed robbery. One charge of battery that never made it to court.”

  


Bruce, now down to his undergarments, slipped into the robe and asked, “Dropped?”

  


“His late girlfriend. Apparently her forgiveness wasn't enough to save her.”

  


“Was he arrested for her murder?”

  


“He seems to have a good attorney.”

  


“Probably a mob lawyer.” The man finished off his juice, and said, “Thanks Alfred.”

  


“Might you be taking a rest while you're home?” he asked.

  


“No, I still have more to do.”

  


“I'll have a suit ready for you, Sir.”

  


“Thanks,” Bruce said, exchanging places with him.

  


He scanned the articles on the monitors for a connection to Crane, but he couldn't find anything solid. _Sofia Falcone though. Just ringside seats. She's been in Italy lately. Probably the money behind his release. For what purpose though? Maroni took over for the Roman._

  


The use of an aerosol mist couldn't be coincidence. Still, no connection to Crane—they didn't even have the same lawyer. The only noteworthy item was the robbery of a downtown pharmaceutical company last week, one that the police managed to get to before Bruce could even don the Batsuit. Croc and company matched the description. It was worth investigating.

  


“Sir, your suit is ready for you in your room. Will you be greeting the decorator when he arrives?”

  


“I'm thinking of heading uptown for some coffee.”

  


“Coffee?” Alfred wore a look of concern. “A good night's rest will do much more for you than a cup of coffee. I thought you were cutting back on the caffeine?”

  


“I am. I think they have decaf. Suit on the door?”

  


“Yes, sir.” Alfred turned back around, ready to head back up the elevator, but paused, and inquired, “What style shall I tell the decorator?”

  


“Something Wayne-like.”

  


“Right. It's not as if you'll be spending time in the manor anyway.”

  


“I could fire you,” Bruce joked.

  


“And if it weren't for your parents, I'd let you.” The elevator ascended once more.

  


“Jonathan Crane...” Bruce murmured. It had crossed his mind that looking up the the connection from the other end might work better. He had looked him up in the past, but wasn't able to find much, probably due to the interference of the League of Shadows. Now that Crane was out, he was hoping he could find something more in the transcripts of his court appearances.

  


He stumbled upon a shaky history; not only were Crane's parent's not his legal guardians, he'd been mentally and physically abused both at home and at school.

  


“ _Just like you, isn't he Bruce?”_

  


“Alfred?” Bruce turned his head. It didn't sound like Alfred, but that was the only logical explanation.

  


“ _He should have called the police when the abuse started, instead of waiting until it was too late.”_

  


“How do you know there was abuse?”

  


“ _There's always abuse in cases like that. He was too pathetic to act. Too scared. Just like you.”_

  


Bruce shook his head. He recalled the intense auditory stimuli he'd experienced in the store. _Crane's formula. Slightly altered. A hallucination._

  


Bruce headed to the elevator. Maybe some coffee could shake these voices.  



	2. Coffee - Part 2

_Le Café_ was quite empty, aside from Crane, an elderly woman with a large purse, and the employees. Bruce figured it was due to the weather; the early snow of winter often brought a sense of dread to the citizens. After a week or two, they'd get used to it, and life would return to normal.

Bruce approached the counter just as Tara headed to the kitchen for supplies. Lucy stepped up, a visible look of disdain on her face, and took his order.

“You want decaf in the morning?”

“Sure, why not?” Bruce replied. “Besides, it's Saturday.”

“Which means it's okay to stay up late. And you can stop flirting with me now,” Lucy stated. “It's only your second visit. You have to take me to dinner first.”

“No fair!” Tara squeaked from the back.

“I wouldn't be opposed to that,” Bruce chuckled.

“Tara! Come take care of this customer for me!”

“Yes ma'am!”

Tara did as she was told, and soon Bruce found himself right back in that corner with the ever-so-unpleasant Jonathan Crane.

“No scarf, huh?” Bruce said as he sat down.

“No,” Crane replied, head titled as he turned the page of his newspaper.

“But it's snowing, just like you said it would.”

A light sigh. No eye contact yet. “I said that _they_ said it would be snowing. I'm not a weatherman.”

“You're not? What do you do then?” _The vegan blueberry isn't terrible. Looks like he has one on his plate too. Takes his coffee with cream, possibly soy milk._

“I sit here and listen to the idle and boring talk of billionaires. The pay is next to nothing.”

“I didn't know Gotham's billionaires all stopped into _Le Café._ ”

Crane set the paper down and turned to face him, a slight smile on his face. “And you don't think that you're one of them?”

_He's amused by me._ “Am I?”

“I suppose that I can say you weren't as bad as yesterday.” An inkling of a smile remained.

_Good. Build rapport._ “What's today's headline?”

Crane flipped the paper over and showcased the page to Bruce. It read:

_Batman Caught in Shakedown_

“He's still around?”

“You don't read the news much, do you?”

“Not really.”

Crane's eyes flitted down in thought, then came back up with a turn of his head. He explained, “It appears that the media considers Batman to be a criminal now.”

“You sound like you don't believe it.”

“It doesn't seem like him.”

“You know him?”

“You could say that.”

Bruce lowered his head and looked around the empty café. “You're not the Batman, are you?”

“Hah!” Crane let out. “Do I look like I have the body of a vigilante?”

_You certainly do have a body._ “Hey, just asking.”

“Is there a reason you sit here?”

“I don't like to eat alone, and there's really no one else in here right now.”

“I do like to eat alone.”

“You should change that,” Bruce said, lifting his coffee to his lips.

“It seems I don't have a choice.” Crane's smile grew into something a little more noticeable, his full lips giving him a mischievous look.

“You could always switch coffee places.”

“This café is the only one close that has a vegetarian menu.”

“You're a vegetarian?”

“All in one sitting, Mr. Wayne?” Crane questioned, referring to the pace of their conversation.

Bruce laughed, face hot. _What the hell am I thinking?_

“I'm reading the paper. Go be boring somewhere else.”

“Duly noted,” remarked Bruce, embarrassed and ashamed. _He's a_ man _, Bruce. And a criminal. This must be that toxin._ Bruce stood up, coffee in hand, and nodded to the counter help before Crane stopped him.

“It's Jonathan, by the way,” he said, eyes piercing into Bruce's. The richer nodded and exited the café, both exhilarated and furious with himself. The case, if there even _was_ one, just became complicated.

* * *

Day four. Or day five. The mornings seemed to blend together.

“No scarf again?” said Bruce, sitting across from Jonathan.

Jon erased something on his crossword puzzle. “Worried for my health, Mr. Wayne?”

“Of course. I wouldn't have anyone to bother in the morning if you froze to death.”

“ _Maybe if you hadn't gotten us killed, you wouldn't be so lonely.”_

“What?” Bruce asked.

“I said that money buys companionship, Bruce. I'm sure you'd make it just fine without me.”

_My father. That's the third time today._ “Money buys Yes-Men, not truth.”

Jon looked up. “Touché, Bruce.”

Bruce nodded at the folded paper. “What is it today?”

“Psychology. Very easy.”

“Why did you erase that word there?”

“Because the loop on my 'e' wasn't perfect.”

“So you're a perfectionist.”

“No. It looked like an 'o,' actually. You distracted me.”

“Is that so?” Bruce grinned. “Yesterday you said paying attention to me was as interesting as watching the grass grow.”

Jon set down his pencil. “You're wrong. I said that growing grass is _far more_ interesting than listening to you speak. Completely different.”

“Still insulting.”

“I suppose that's all that counts.” Jon leaned back in his chair, leaving his crossword incomplete. “So, Mr. Wayne. What is it today? A big meeting? Another dull party?”

“Interested in my life now?”

“Even if I were, it'd still be in the paper. Best get the news from the source, don't you think? It lacks bias.”

“Ah, but I could lie to you.”

Jon folded his arms. “You could lie, but I'd be able to tell.”

“Are you some sort of psychic?”

“If I were psychic, don't you think I'd dress better for the weather?”

“So you admit you forgot to wear your scarf today.”

“You're assuming I own one.”

That surprised Bruce. “You don't?”

“If I had one, I'd be wearing it.”

“Why not get one then?”

“Department stores are draining.”

_The more people, the higher the chance of you being recognized._ “Have mine then.”

Jon blinked at him. He wasn't expecting that. “What?”

Bruce unwrapped the scarf from his neck. “Have mine.”

Jon let it fall on the table. “You're insane. Why would I want yours?”

“ _He's right, Bruce. You are insane. Fraternizing with a criminal? How could you possibly be our son?”_

“Because you don't have your own,” Bruce swallowed.

Jon peered at Bruce with dubious eyes, then held the scarf to his nose. “This doesn't reek of rich-boy cologne, does it?”

“I don't wear much,” Bruce answered. He left out why. He found colognes to be too strong and clingy; he didn't want to risk someone smelling Batman above them, nor connect a distinct brand back to a credit card purchase. A fresh shower was much easier.

“You're an unusual man,” Jon said, tucking the scarf into his coat pocket. “Remind me to whine about not having a car tomorrow. Make sure to drive something nice.”

Lucy laughed from the counter. The two men shot her a look. “What? It was funny.”

When Bruce returned his attention to Jon, a knowing stare met him. Jon was grinning, a blush bringing out the light freckles on his cheeks. Plainly put, Crane looked absolutely adorable.

_Damn toxin,_ thought Bruce. Surely it was to blame.

* * *

“Lucius?” Bruce Wayne, cup of coffee in his hand, poked his head into Lucius' office. He'd just made it to work after his tenth—maybe eleventh—visit to _Le Café_. Of course, his parents scolded him on the way, but that didn't stop him from buying coffee.

“Mr. Wayne,” Lucius said, briefly looking up from the work at his desk. “I see you've decided to come to work today.”

The office door closed. “We've developed some pretty advanced computers, right?”

“Yes and no,” the sage answered. “What is it that you need?”

“I want something faster,” Bruce said, taking a seat. “Something with more access to everything.”

“If you're talking about hacking into the systems of governments and corporations, you can count me out.”

“Just for background checks and profiling. I need an edge.”

“Even with the best decryption software, you can still be tracked,” the older warned him. “Depending on who you're dealing with, all the ghosting in the world can't hide you. Any secret hideouts, or say, corporate towers in the center of the city, would stick out like a sore thumb.”

“As long as I can cut the connection before they reach me, or watch them as they watch me, it's a risk I'm willing to take.”

“I don't like the sound of it. Too _many_ risks, even for you. You've already got access to databases that you shouldn't.”

“What about voice commands?” Bruce followed up with.

“That's a little more feasible. Something that you'd be looking for would need to be a little more advanced. You'd want voice recognition, and for that, we'd need to record you speaking, counting, saying the alphabet...it might take a while. And you'd have to choose your tone too. If you want that voice-acting number of yours to work, you'd have to do an entire recording in that voice.”

“Let's do it then,” Bruce decided, standing.

“I'll get back to you on that soon.” Lucius peered curiously at the cup in the other's hand. “I thought you were cutting coffee out of your regimen?”

“Decaf,” Bruce said after a sip.

“No point of having decaf in the morning,” Lucius said, head shaking. “Smells good though.”

“Tastes good too.” Another sip. “Which reminds me. Remember when I asked you to make a vaccine against Crane's fear toxin?”

“Don't tell me...”

“I'm not sure yet.” The younger stared blankly out of the large windows. “Do you still have any?”

“I did keep some stored, just in case.”

“I'll need a few to keep on hand.” Bruce sighed. “And I might be bringing you some new samples.”

“I don't like the sound of this,” Lucius stated. “Does this have anything to do with the recent robberies at the chemical and pharmaceutical plants?”

“Hope not.”

“Crane's out now. They weren't able to put him back into Arkham.”

“I'm watching him,” Bruce told him, turning for the door. “Just get the vaccines ready.”

“And the computer.”

“Thanks Lucius.”

* * *

The door opened, bringing in a rush of winter air to Jon's table.

_He's early._ Jon quickly unwrapped the fabric from his neck and stuffed it in his coat. _Did he see it?_

“Good morning!” Bruce greeted, holding the door for a leaving couple. He adjusted his collar the way that arrogant billionaire types do and tapped on Jon's table.

“What?”

“Good morning, Jon.”

“You are loathsome and my dislike of you knows no bounds.”

“At least you didn't say hatred.”

Jon glared at him, not realizing that Bruce rather enjoyed the color of those nasty arrows known as eyes. “Pretend I did.”

“I like the sound of 'good morning' better,” Bruce winked, leaving him for the counter.

Jon sighed and turned the page of his newspaper, eyes stopping dead on the article near his thumb. He'd read every single newspaper—even the sports sections—for the past few weeks, and it wasn't until _now_ that he made the connection. Someone was trying to concoct _his_ drug.

Aside from the fact that it was _his_ formula and he should damn well get the credit for its creation (he mused applying for a patent and then selling it as a non-lethal weapon to the government, but the idea of more chaos sickened him), Jon knew that they would be after him soon, whomever _they_ were.

_Who else would know the components?_ Jon thought. _The Batman; he supplied someone the formula in order to create an antidote. But he'd never do it._ Jon glanced at Bruce, hoping that he wasn't quite finished at the counter yet.

“Anything else, Mr. Wayne?”

“Hmm. Not sure. What's your second favorite muffin?”

Jon returned to his speculation. _Darrin was killed during the violence at Arkham. The League of Shadows perhaps, but this is too sloppy._

It hit him. _A dirty cop._

“Anything interesting?” Bruce said as he sat down.

Caught off-guard, Jon's eyes lost their edge, and he found himself honestly answering the man. “Just another robbery report.”

“You make it sound like Gotham's a bad place to live.”

“It's deplorable,” Crane answered.

“It's not bad,” Bruce said with a sip, though silently agreeing with him. “So what's it say happened?”

“Another pharmaceutical company, and another specific psychotropic chemical stolen.”

“Specific? What does it say it does?”

“It doesn't say anything but the name, but I know what it's for.”

“Are you a pharmacist?”

Crane's lips lightly curved into a devilish smile. “I was once in a closely related business.”

“Ah, maybe you know an acquaintance of mine,” Bruce said.

_As long as you don't say Carmine Falcone._ “I probably don't,” Crane challenged him.

“Gilbert Gillespie?”

“The name rings a bell,” Crane admitted. In fact, it more than rang a bell to him. Gilbert was the president and founder of the GG Chemical Company. He visited Arkham once, and Jon caught him with his pants down—literally. In an effort to hide the discovery from Mrs. Gillespie, Gilbert bought a lot of upgrades for Arkham, as well as a new computer for Crane's office. “Doesn't he make a lot of generous donations to various organizations?”

Bruce laughed, having won the challenge, but also because of what Crane said. “Depends on what he is caught doing at the charity functions.”

Crane let out a loud chuckle. Bruce had a tendency to do this to him, and he didn't care for it. “Mr. Wayne, you certainly aren't very boring today.”

Bruce looked at his watch. “Nope, but I'm pretty late. Bye Jon.”

Jon clenched the scarf in his pocket, waiting for Bruce's car to be out of sight. _This is absurd,_ he told himself, holding the fabric to his face. The scent intoxicated him. _Don't come back again tomorrow._


	3. Coffee - Part 3

“Mr. Wayne!” exclaimed Tara. “Will it be your usual today?”

“Add four dozen muffins to go,” Bruce replied.

It was the end of yet another week of Crane watching, and Bruce quite literally didn't have time to stop and chat with him. This morning he had an important meeting that he actually couldn't be asleep for, and afterward he had to catch up with Lucius to talk about computers before the man flew to New York on business. Even stopping to get muffins was a risk, but he needed a real excuse for being late. Telling the board that Batman had one hell of a night wouldn't exactly work, at least not in his favor. The media would love it—especially that Summer Gleason—if anyone took such an excuse seriously.

Alfred was also waiting outside.

“And a cup of your house blend,” he ordered for the loyal butler, despite the man's love of tea, “with one cream.”

A loud sigh. Lucy's shoulders dropped as she yelled into the back kitchen, “Better make some more muffins, guys. _Some_ _guy_ just came in and bought everything.”

“Luce!” Tara scolded as she did.

“What?” Lucy replied. “Am I _lying_?”

“He's not _some guy_!” Tara turned back toward the person of her affection, and asked, “Do you need help carrying this to...” Tara looked beyond Bruce. “...Your car?”

“If you'd _really_ like to,” Bruce flirted back. “Maybe both of you could help?” The man considered how Lucy's proportional curves would look in one of those skimpy-clingy numbers they wear at the Academy Awards. _Maybe I should ask Lucy to the gala._

But Lucy vanished from his mind. He'd passed Jonathan on the way in. _Why am I doing this in front of him?_

“Of course!” Tara tapped Lucy after completing the transaction. “Come on! Help me box these up.”

Lucy's eyes hit the ceiling. “I really should've stayed in school,” she muttered, grabbing a sheet of wax paper and stuffing leafy and leafless muffins into the box Tara cradled.

“ _You should have too, Bruce.”_

“Hmm?” Bruce asked.

“Tch, nothing,” Lucy replied. She secretly adored the attention.

“ _You could do good with the Wayne name. Instead you use it as a cover for your violence.”_

_Not again. Not here!_ “Just mix them up,” Bruce instructed them.

“What does it look like we're doing?” Lucy asked.

“Luce!”

Crane chuckled in the corner, amused by the three of them. Bruce caught him, coloring Jon's face with a light rose hue, and gave the man a wave. Jon returned to his coffee and the paper.

“ _Can't have an heir to the Wayne fortune if you're off playing Batman, let alone running around with some man.”_

The words were too hateful to be his parents. Were they his own? It didn't matter, he needed to be here. It was becoming more and more clear to him that Crane might not actually be involved in this. Meanwhile, Croc was gaining notoriety in the underworld and more robberies were being committed. Crane was his only lead. He wasn't going to stop watching him until he figured out what the connection was, even if Crane wasn't directly involved.

“All set!” Tara announced.

“Thank you ladies,” Bruce answered.

* * *

Bruce arrived at the office twenty minutes after leaving the café, his blame placed solely on the traffic; it wasn't normally so backed up past 8:45. Immediately, he set the muffins on the meeting table and said, “Thought I'd pick up some breakfast for everyone.”

“Any later and it would've been lunch,” sneered Lawrence, the board's oldest member, who was the first to nab a muffin and the only person who would've eaten lunch at nine-thirty. After a large bite, he motioned to the man across from him, and said, “Bruce Wayne, this is Maury Beardsley, a representative from ChemChem. Maury, Bruce.”

“Nice to meet you.” The two men shook hands.

Lawrence had enough. “Can we move on?”

“Let's,” Bruce said, taking a seat. A large presentation packet sat before him. Everyone had one, and they were all open to a specific page.

Lucius leaned over and whispered, “Page 4.”

Bruce nodded and turned to said page. “This is a list of all the chemicals ChemChem produces?”

“Every one of them,” said Maury. “You'll see that we not only manufacture some compounds on-site, we ship them out to other pharmaceutical companies worldwide.”

“If you'll look at page 36, figure 2a,” Lawrence began, muffin crumbs clinging to the corners of his mouth, “you'll see that the chemicals are manufactured at a relatively low cost.”

Maury jumped in. “If you're wondering about mark-up, turn to page 38, figures 4a and 4b—”

“Very fair to the buyers, and profitable for ChemChem,” Lawrence said.

“Looks like a rip-off,” stated Bruce.

The other members of the board looked to Maury for an answer, remaining quiet about their stance. Lucius hid a smile.

“Yes, but Mr. Wayne, if you do the math, you'll see that the prices per unit even out when considering tax and shipping rates and—”

“And I see that you're incorporated in Delaware.” Bruce didn't look up from the packet. “What page is the math on?”

Maury hesitated. “I don't know, Mr. Wayne.”

“So it's not in here?”

“If it's not, it must have been missed. We'll gladly fax over a copy—”

“And page 74 shows that you're capable of manufacturing this...what is it, a brand? 'Vitatrol X'? You can manufacture this compound on-site. Yet not only are you forcing the Brick Chemicals Company in Pennsylvania—a small, local company—to sell you Vitatrol X instead of the individual components, you've forced them to sell it to you below the cost of the combined components.”

Maury adjusted his tie. “Well, it would be unethical for us to advise others on how to run their business...”

Bruce unwrapped a muffin. “I said forced. You've eaten up their other business clients, either by buying them out or stealing their business, and they're left with just you, all alone, to keep money coming in. You've preyed upon their desperation to stay afloat and then what? You'll buy them when they're in danger of bankruptcy?”

“It's called capitalism, Wayne,” Lawrence scolded.

Bruce leaned back in his chair and took a bite. “Can't be. I always thought capitalism had a sense of honor and fair game.”

“The only fair is laissez-faire. The world ain't puppies and fairies, kid,” said Lawrence.

“But,” Lucius interjected, “the company should at least make an effort to pretend that it is.”

“Mr. Fox is right,” said another member. “We have an image to think of.”

“Please, I implore you,” pleaded Maury. “Turn to page 43—”

“And besides,” Bruce laughed. “What about the name? I mean, 'ChemChem'? Doesn't that remind anyone of anything?”

A member at the far end of the table shouted, “Fen-phen!”

“Good point, Mr. Wayne,” echoed another.

“Yeah, image and advertising is everything,” remarked a third.

Bruce shrugged. “All in favor of...” He picked up the packet. “Whatever this is?”

Lawrence's hand rose. Maury's did too, in a terrible effort to gain the board's favor.

“And those in favor of saying screw it?” Bruce asked.

Everyone else's hand raised.

“Looks like it's decided.” Bruce stood from his chair and grabbed the packet. “Muffin for the road, Maury?”

“No, I...”

“They're good muffins.”

“No.” Maury packed his briefcase. “Thank you for your time.”

The room emptied. Lucius strode next to Bruce on their way out.

“It lacked tact,” the older man said, “but you're starting to remind everyone about that brain of yours.”

“I know a few years have passed, but people still remember my family's name on the side of that machine that tore up the Narrows.”

“And your efforts to focus more on the science of building society rather than destroying it should be applauded.”

Bruce smiled. “You're the brains of the operation.”

“And you could be the heart.” The men entered an empty elevator. “Did the inoculation take?”

“The auditory hallucinations are still there.” _So is the urge to touch Jon's lips._

“Any triggers?” Lucius followed up.

_Crane._ “Inner thought.”

“Now I'm no psychiatrist, but is it possible that this might just be a result of some...say, repressed feelings?”

_Guilty._ “It's only really been the voices of my parents,” Bruce told him, wondering if Lucius was suggesting something else. The older man often spoke as if he knew more than he was letting on; the young Wayne thought that this was just the wisdom that came with age, and wondered if Batman would reach this stage before Bruce.

“Maybe you should see a doctor.”

_Already am; he's the problem._ “You have a point.”

“The software is ready for you whenever you want to sit down and do some recordings.” Lucius leaned over in a parental manner. “You _do_ have time in that busy schedule of yours to do so, don't you?”

A twinge of a smile graced Bruce's lips at the implication. He was hoping that he wouldn't be needed until night time. “In my office or down in Archives?”

“Which place do you think is more secure?”

_Archives._ The elevator doors opened.  “Thanks Lucius. Have a safe trip.”

“Thanks, Bruce. Go easy on yourself, got it?” Lucius jested, stepping out. “What with the...spelunking and all.”

“I'll try.”

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

8:50.

Bruce turned over, nailing his knee on a cushioned object.

_ What the heck is that? _ He rubbed the place of contact. No pain.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

“Damn it,” he cursed, sitting straight up. He'd fallen asleep on the couch in his office. Bruce picked up his cell, the source of the incessant beeping, and took notice of the time. It was 8:51. _This has been going off for twenty-one minutes?_

Initially, Bruce intended to take a quick nap and wake up far before the alarm went off. It'd been a long day; by the time he made it through all of the meetings, “sign here, Sir” paper-work, and vocal recordings, it was 7:30.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself.

His cell rang.

“Wayne,” he answered.

“ _Master Bruce.”_ It was Alfred. _“A bit late, are we?”_

“I fell asleep in my office.”

“ _Something you should be  
doing at home. During normal hours.”_

“Point taken.”

“ _In one ear and out the other. Been driving about the block for half an hour now. Care to come down and join me?”_

“Yeah, I'll be right there.” He hung up.

Bruce's extremely pregnant secretary was still at her desk when he exited the office.

“'Bout time,” she said. “Did you fall asleep again? I heard an alarm going off through the door.”

“Yeah,” he said, collecting their coats from the hanger beside her desk. “What are you still doing here?”

“I'm here as long as you are.”

He draped her coat over her shoulders. “Don't be ridiculous, Allie. I'd hate to have your water break while I'm sleeping.”

“Then don't stay so late,” she smiled.

They walked toward the elevator. “Where'd you park?”

“I took the train today,” she answered. “And Terry's been downstairs for about 40 minutes. I'll be fine.”

The elevator opened and they entered. “He has? Sorry about that.”

“Don't worry. We're used to it.”

“Ouch,” Bruce said. “What do I owe you two, a free date at a four-star? How about a nanny while you're on leave?”

Allie laughed. “Seriously, Mr. Wayne. Don't worry about it. You're too good to us already.”

They reached the lobby. Bruce waved to her husband, who waved back, then glanced through the entrance doors at Alfred, who was waiting outside. “Take care, Allie.”

“Night, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce smiled and left. A cold breeze hit his face, urging him faster into the idling car.

“So I'll meet ya down on Third,” said a passing man. “Boss ain't gonna be there. He's got more...important things to attend to.”

_Boss?_ Cold as he was, Bruce hesitated before crossing the sidewalk. He recognized the man as Ax, one of Croc's look-outs during the convenience store heist.

“Hey! Watch it buddy!” the man exclaimed. His phone fell to the ground, knocked there “mistakenly” by Bruce Wayne.

“Sorry, really,” Bruce apologized, picking up the phone. According to Ax's caller ID, he was talking to Sid the Squid.

“Here,” Bruce said, passing the cell back. “Really, I'm sorry. I'll buy you a new one.”

“Whatever, pussy-ass punk,” Ax said, swiping the phone and holding it to his ear. “Yo, sorry 'bout that. Some rich-ass bitch wasn't lookin' where he was goin'.” He walked away then, not forgetting to sneer at Bruce's car as he did.

“Sorry, Alfred,” Bruce apologized as he sat down.

“I took the liberty of packing your things, sir.” He gestured at the gym bag beside Bruce. “Part of me must have known you'd be late. Where is it that I might take you tonight?”

“Any suspicious areas down on Third that you can think of?”

“Caught a bite, did you?”

“Think so.”

“Nowhere this car could take you without looking conspicuous, Master Wayne. Perhaps the corner of Seventh and West Harbor?”

“That'll work,” Bruce agreed.

* * *

The place stank of fish and urine. It was starting to rain that part-snow-part-ice-part-water crap that definitely meant slippery sidewalks and black ice the next morning, but all of the water in the world couldn't wash away the stink that festered on Carol and Third.

Ax always hated the area. And now Squid was missing.

“Squid? Yo Squid!”

“Damn it, Ax!” Sid cursed under his chilled breath, a curse that was responded to by the harsh shock of his back hitting brick.

“Where's Croc?” Batman asked again. Though only steps away from Ax, their location was hidden by the unwelcoming shadows of the alley next to Hayden's Fish Market.

“I...I don't know!”

“Remember!” Batman hissed.

“Sid? Sid?” Ax paced nervously in the glow of the street light. The precipitation fell harder.

“I—Ax is lookin' for me!” Sid explained.

“I can think of creative ways for him to find you.”

“I—uh...”

“Sid the Squid. Ax. These are names I can forget to tell Croc when I find him, provided I can do it the easy way.”

“No! No!” Sid's brows raised high with worry. “He'll kill us! Both of us!”

“Not my problem,” Batman said, letting go but not stepping back. He could tell that Sid was the type to scare easily. There was no need to seriously rough him up, as long as Sid didn't know that Batman knew that.

“Okay! Okay!” Sid broke. “He's got a big meeting at the hideout.”

“With _who?_ ”

“I dunno! I dunno! I swear! He don't tell us nothin'!”

“You forgot some key details,” Batman reminded him, pushing him against the wall again.

“Sid?” Ax's sloshing footsteps became more frantic.

“Ted's Deli and Butcher, on Fifth, I swear! It's a room in the back! That's all I know!”

_Same old story with criminals._ “And tonight's job?”

“ChemChem...gotta pick up some crates and bring 'em back.”

“That's what you _were_ doing,” Batman corrected him, wrapping cable ties around Sid's wrists.

“No! You can't!” Sid shouted louder now. “Help! Help!”

“Sid?”

Batman knocked Sid unconscious and hid, awaiting the arrival of Ax. The man's body slumped into a cold puddle, soaking his clothes.

“Damn it!” Ax cursed, coming upon the scene. “Sid! Get up, damn it!” He kicked Sid in the leg once, twice, and then a third time.

The fourth time he found himself pressed against the ground, hands strapped together behind his back. The next thing he knew, he and Sid were in a police car, on their way to jail.

* * *

Bruce hardly heard Jon call his name when he walked into _Le Café_ close to noon that Saturday. He had no idea how he'd actually made it there, nor why he mechanically woke up and dressed as if he were heading into the office. The brisk cold did nothing to perk up his senses; he was on auto-pilot and auto-pilot for him didn't require much energy to operate.

“The first time I actually greet you first and you completely ignore me.” Jon shook his head as he erased a wrong letter from the Saturday puzzle. “Should've known.”

“Sorry. Hi Jon.”

Jon nudged the chair across from him out with his foot. It was the first time he willingly invited the man to sit with him. The richer smiled, bashful and aware of what actually dragged him out of bed this morning.

“Late night at the...” Jon said, hanging onto the word as he gazed into Bruce's eyes, “...office?”

Bruce let out a hint of laughter at the insinuation. There was something about the intensity of Jon's stare and the curves of his lips that made Bruce forget about the pain, bitterness, and corruption amok in Gotham City. It was either that or the toxin. “You could say that.”

“Well, you weren't the only one,” Jon informed him.

Bruce hoped that Jon wasn't donning the patchy burlap sack again. “Oh really?” he replied, a flirtatious inflection masking his concern (but also partially flirting). “I didn't know you were such a...night-owl.”

“I'm afraid you have me mixed up with someone else. I was referring to...this.” Jon flipped his paper over.

“Another robbery?” Bruce knew better.

“The Batman. He seems to have finally caught on to—” Jon stopped; he didn't want to scare Bruce away with his criminal past. “To the stories the papers have been printing.”

“Maybe they'll stop soon.”

“Hopefully,” Jon said honestly. “That's good news for you, isn't it? Seeing as your company decided not to deal with ChemChem.”

“Scanning the pages for my name, are we?”

“What else would I have to return your torment with?” Jon quipped. He folded up the page and passed it over the table to Bruce. “Seems that they made mention of your little party next weekend.” He pointed a finger at the precise line he referenced. “Funny how the stories are right next to each other.”

“Well, what would a charity event in Gotham be like if it wasn't overshadowed by a string of robberies?” Bruce joked.

Jon grasped the statement. “I knew it. You aren't as in the dark about current events as you make yourself out to be.”

“You've got me. Is that why you invited me over here today?”

“Partially,” Jon said, stirring his coffee, nonchalant. “But partially because you were bound to sit here anyway.”

“I barely realized you were here this morning.” _That's right Bruce, just drive him away by insulting him. Real smart._

“Which is why my third reason for beckoning you over here is justified.”

“Beckoning?”

“Yes, beckoning.” Jon moistened his lips with his tongue, a subconscious motion that was so quick that it might have gone unnoticed. It didn't. “Don't you want to know what it was?”

Bruce couldn't care less; he was so close to Jon that he could smell him without the funk of Arkham and the grim reality of Batman in the way. It was faint but delightful.

“Sure,” he replied, his smile never fading. This crush was becoming uncontrollable. Will-power was something he nor Batman could afford to lack.

“To delay you from ordering.” Jon sat back in the chair as if he had just put Bruce's king in check.

“It seems you have succeeded,” Bruce admitted, standing without losing his gaze.

“It seems I have.”

Bruce shook his head and made his way toward the counter, where he placed his usual order with Tara. Lucy stood beside her, looking disinterested per her usual routine. Her other act was annoyed.

“So, how's your _boyfriend_?” Lucy prodded.

Bruce's eyebrows dipped toward his nose. “My who?”

“Jonny Newspaper?” she retorted.

“He's not my boyfriend,” Bruce denied, hoping that his strict physical and mental training was not failing in its duty to conceal a blush. “But if you're asking about Jon, he seems to be his usual self.”

“Yeah, okay,” Lucy said. “I believe you.”

“Um, Mr. Wayne?” Tara interjected. “Will this be for here or to go today?”

“I was thinking of staying—”

“He'll take it to go,” Jon interrupted from across the room.

“Um...?” Tara was confused.

“To go,” Bruce answered, shaking his head as he glanced at Jon. The hot little bastard was smirking.

“Prove it,” Lucy challenged, referring to her recent accusation of Jon and Bruce being together. Unfortunately for her, Bruce already planned for such an occasion.

“Go to the gala with me.”

“The what?” That caught her off-guard. Tara's shoulders sank as she stirred Bruce's  
drink.

“I'm hosting this thing at this hotel I bought to raise money for education.”

“Couldn't you have just given the money you used to buy the hotel to some school district?”

She had a point. “I bought it a couple of years ago.”

“Aren't I a bit young for you?” The young woman felt a bit nervous now. She'd never been asked out to a fancy party before, and certainly never thought it would be Bruce Wayne who'd be the first to ask her.

“I'm not _that_ old,” Bruce laughed.

“Luce!” Tara hissed, urging Lucy to join her on the side. She whispered to her, “You can't pass up an opportunity like this! It's only like five or six years! Who cares!”

“ _You're_ the one with the crush on him,” Lucy reminded her.

“Shh! I don't want him to know!”

“It's not like you make it a secret! Besides, I don't even have a dress.”

“Do you want one?” Bruce offered.

Flabbergasted was look Lucy's face was not used to. It was hard to be the snarky, all-knowing witch when someone pressed her princess button. Someone she secretly decided was attractive, not creepy, and wouldn't mind a date with. “Um...”

“Sorry,” Bruce apologized, “was that too weird?”

“Luce!” Tara smacked her hard on the arm. Words escaped Lucy. Tara filled in. “No! She would really love one of those nice designer ones! You know, the kind you only wear once and everyone on the red carpet is envious of? I could help her out.”

“Well I wouldn't want _him_ there to buy it,” Lucy told Tara.

Bruce jumped in. “Of course not, I'd send my assistant.”

“A female assistant?” Lucy asked.

“A female assistant.” A wide grin. The answer was “yes.”

“I guess so...”

Bruce pulled out his cell-phone and began dialing. He wondered if Jon was listening, but it didn't appear so. “Hey,” he said once the phone connected, “I need you to buy a friend of mine a dress for the gala. No, it'll be my personal account, I'll send Alfred to drive you two around and pay. Here, talk to her.” Bruce handed Lucy the phone.

“Um, hello?” she said. “Lucy. I'm working then.” She nodded. “That's when I get out. _Le Café_ , uptown?  Okay, thanks. Bye.” She passed the phone back like hot-potato.

“Thanks, see you Monday.” Bruce hung up. “It's a date then?”

“Well I don't know about—ow!” Lucy rubbed the sore spot on her arm. “Damn it, Tara!”

“She can't wait, Mr. Wayne!” Tara finished for her friend. “Oh, and here's your order. Thanks for stopping by!”

“Of course.” Bruce took his order and nodded. “Ladies.” He shot a look at Jon. “Jonny Newspaper.”  



	4. Coffee - Part 4

Out of the two-hundred something socialites at the gala, only five of them would openly admit to hating it. One of these people was Lucy. She certainly stole the show, though. Being on the arm of Bruce Wayne was one thing (a thing she particularly hated because it was ever-so anti-feminista), but being young, beautiful, and unafraid of attitude got her a few less-than-amused comments and a fair amount of attention.  
  
She was freaking stunning.  
  
"Sorry about these...guys," Bruce said. "The old men come from a different time."  
  
"That's no excuse," she retorted.  
  
"It isn't an excuse, just an explanation. Who cares about them anyway?"  
  
"Bar time," she said, gunning for the round set-up somewhat centered near the back of the behemoth ballroom.  
  
"Can't argue with that," Bruce shrugged, feeling a bit thirsty. He planned on refraining from alcohol, just in case.  
  
"Hey," Lucy stopped, tapping on his arm. "Is that Jonny Newspaper?"  
  
 _What?_ Bruce looked at the profile of the man sitting at the bar. "I think it is." Absent-minded, he walked a bit brisker. Good thing he had Lucy there to think for him.  
  
"You gonna ask him to dance, or something?"  
  
"What?" Bruce smiled.  
  
"You're intent on getting over there pretty fast." Lucy slapped aside the hand of a man who reached out to touch her. She found weaving in and out of a crowd of predominantly waspy men to be rather difficult in slinky high-heels. She longed for a pair of flats.  
  
"I had no idea he would be here. I just want to stop and say hi."  
  
"He's obviously trying to hide."  
  
Bruce turned to her and winked. "Even better."  
  
"Why do the two of you torture each other so?"  
  
"That's just what we do."  
  
"I better not lose two customers over this..." she muttered.  
  
"I could buy the café," Bruce offered. _Almost there. She's right though. It looks like he doesn't want to be seen._  
  
"Please don't," she whined.  
  
"Hey, Mr. Newspaper," Bruce greeted from behind the man.  
  
Jon didn't bother to turn around. "I was clearly trying to hide."  
  
"You knew I would be here."  
  
"I am here for a friend. A friend that is not you." Crane spun around on the stool. "I would strongly advise against taking that as meaning you and I are friends. We are not."  
  
Bruce offered a seat to Lucy, and then sat between her and Crane. "Or else?"  
  
"Or else I'll have my friend poison you."  
  
"Your friend—"  
  
"What'll it be?" a young thirty-is-the-new-twenty woman asked them.  
  
"Anything," Lucy said. "Anything that makes nightmares go away."  
  
"I'm sure he'll catch sight of a model and leave you soon enough," Jon ridiculed.  
  
The bartender smiled and looked at Bruce. "Mr. Wayne?"  
  
"Will you laugh if I ask you to hold the alcohol?"  
  
"Of course not. Sparkling juice?"  
  
"Sure. Anything. Surprise me."  
  
"Of course," the woman smiled, mixing Lucy's drink first.  
  
"Jenny, this is that annoying guy I told you about," Jon introduced, smile somewhat forced.  
  
"You didn't have to come, Jon," she muttered.  
  
"You two know each other?" Bruce asked the woman.  
  
Crane spoke first. "None of your—"  
  
Jenny answered more politely. "We went to college together." She handed off the drink she made to Lucy, and began pouring Bruce's. "Became good friends."  
  
 _I should ask Alfred to research her. Get a last name from the employment records. Jennifer is too common._ "You're not going to poison me, are you?" Bruce joked, taking the glass from her.  
  
"Don't listen to Jon," she waved her hand.  
  
"Easier said than done." He flashed Crane his signature grin, and for a moment, he thought that Crane wanted to smile back.  
  
Lucy snatched a fancy, jumbo shrimp from a passing silver platter. "This I could get used to," she remarked. Downing a bite, she added, "But only if I didn't have to deal with that creeper over there."  
  
"What creeper?" Bruce leaned in.  
  
Lucy pointed her elegant, painted fingernails toward the man that had been trying to play grab-ass with her all night. "That one."  
  
"Gilbert Gillespie," Jon laughed.  
  
"You're rich too?"  
  
"He's..." Jenny defended. "Jon didn't..."  
  
"I'm not part of this world,” Jon told her. “I just interacted with it frequently."  
  
"How many people have recognized you?" Lucy asked.  
  
"None, actually," Jon answered. "Gillespie might, if he's still sober."

Bruce let out a laugh, almost choking on the bubbly drink he'd been served.

Jon didn't let that smile out of his peripheral sight. He had to pretend that he was paying attention to Lucy. "I was too...lowly for these people."  
  
"You're lucky," Jenny stated. Only Lucy didn't know the depth of that remark.  
  
But she wasn't paying attention anymore. A suspicious woman caught her eye. It wasn't that she was particularly paranoid about these sorts of parties in Gotham. She just couldn't _forget_ that these sorts of things tended to happen at parties in Gotham.  
  
"Hey, what's up with her?" she whispered to Bruce.  
  
Bruce looked in the direction Lucy was pointing, but didn't see anyone. "Who?"  
  
"She's gone."  
  
"What was she doing?"  
  
"I dunno. I can't explain it. Her posture, I think. It was confident, but not fake. It seemed..."  
  
"Her posture?" This concerned Bruce. _Most people don't realize what it is about a person's body language that makes them feel uncomfortable._  
  
"I'm not crazy," she defended.  
  
"Didn't say you were." Batman clicked on. _Get them out of here. Hide Crane. He might be involved. Maybe not._ "Jenny, you said it was?" he asked the bartender. "Why don't you take a break?"  
  
"Mr. Wayne, I can't—"  
  
"I'm technically your boss, right? I don't just hold the deed to this place. Take a five. Maybe you can help me give these two a tour?"  
  
Though Bruce's worry was well controlled, Jon connected Lucy's concern to his sudden change in behavior. He knew that it wasn't the first time one of these parties—especially one of Bruce's parties— had been interrupted by the underbelly.  
  
"Sure..." Jenny accepted. Apron removed and tucked neatly beneath the bar, she tapped the counter to notify the other bartenders of her absence. They let her go without incident; socialites tipped _really_ well (except Gilbert), and that meant more money for them.  
  
"This way," Bruce gestured, looking over their heads to scan the room. A few men gave each other signals through the crowd. _Damn it._ On edge, Bruce waited as Jenny walked around the counter.  
  
Inconspicuous, they pushed through the patrons and entered a hallway. Few people were there. Bruce politely nodded to them, suggesting they step outside for some fresh air or a smoke break, depending on the person he passed. Once the group turned a corner, he asked, "Do you have lipstick?"

“Me?” Lucy asked.

“Yes.”  
  
"Lipstick in this...whatever the hell this glittery little purse is?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"It's customary for tour guides to talk about the _sites_ , Mr. Wayne," Jon mocked from the back of the group.  
  
"This is the hallway," Bruce stated, flat. He returned to Lucy with an outstretched palm and demanded, "Hand it to me please. I need it." _The more back-up plans, the better._  
  
"You want my _lipstick?_ "  
  
Bruce watched for the slightest of shadows around the next turn, which was still several yards away. He picked up his pace, and said, "Please. Just give it to me."  
  
The small stick smacked into his hand. "Fine."  
  
Bruce stopped at a maintenance closet. "Do you have access to this, Jenny?" The intersecting hallway darkened briefly.  
  
"Yeah." She pulled out her keys to prove it.  
  
"I need you to open it."  
  
Jon continued his charade. "Ah yes. The stunning 'glass cleaner' portion  
of the tour."  
  
Jenny unlocked the door and flicked on the light, and Bruce motioned them inside, waiting for the last of them to enter before stepping inside and closing the door. He twirled the lipstick up and said, "You all need to stay here."  
  
"You better not have herpes or whatever that cold-sore thing is," she sneered.  
  
Bruce put a smudge of the lipstick on his finger. "Don't worry," he said, twisting and capping it. He handed it back to her and smeared the rouge onto his collar. "It's fine."  
  
 _"First a man, now lipstick. Delightful, Bruce. What a disappointment you are."_  
  
"Why are you locking us in here?" Jen asked.  
  
"Just stay here."  
  
"Oh no," Lucy expressed. "You really _do_ think that something is about to happen, don't you? That's why you said those things to those people in the hallway..."  
  
Bruce ruffled his hair a bit. "I'm not sure. I'm going to go out there and check on the other guests."  
  
"And the lipstick?" Jon questioned. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious.  
  
"I can pretend the three of you aren't in here." Bruce grabbed the door-knob. "Keep the light off. Be quiet."  
  
Exiting the room, he immediately stumbled into one of the men he'd seen give a signal earlier.  
  
"Watch it," the man warned.  
  
"Sorry," Bruce said, fixing his collar. "Hey, do you happen to know what gets lipstick out of clothes?"  
  
"Aside from laundry detergent?"  
  
 _Good._ "Ah...I was looking for a quick fix in there."  
  
The man laughed. "That's not from your date, is it."  
  
Bruce shrugged. "Got me."  
  
"Nah man, sorry about that. Hey, you wouldn't happen to have seen a...doctor around here, would you?"  
  
"No," Bruce replied.  
  
"No one was in there with you?"  
  
"No. Pretty tiny in there too." _Slender nose, sunken cheekbones._  
  
"Right, right."  
  
"You need a doctor? Buddy with too much to drink?"  
  
"Ah, no," the man corrected. "A certain doctor."  
  
"I saw a few doctor-types out front smoking."  
  
"Smoking, eh? Funny how many docs smoke."  
  
"Yeah, tell me about it. Hypocrites."  
  
"Right."  
  
Just then, another man exited a door across the way. "Jay said he saw 'im at the bar."  
  
The first man looked at his cohort and then back at Bruce. "Guess I'm heading to the bar. Good luck with that lipstick, man."  
  
"Thanks. Think I'll follow. Maybe I can try some alcohol."  
  
As he re-entered the ballroom, he studied the motions of the thugs he'd spoken to. He never saw the woman, but he counted at least eight men that were involved in this plot. _They must be looking for Crane._  
  
And it was about to get ugly.  
  
A shot rang out from a balcony overlooking the gala. The men he'd followed had pulled nylons over their heads. Bruce sidled behind the counter, slowly putting his hands up. The crowd gasped and let out screams. Some cursed.  
  
"Now," a man announced from the balcony, "we're gonna make this simple. We ain't even gonna rob ya. We're just looking for one man. A doctor." He aimed his gun down. "We ain't gonna hurt ya unless you do something stupid. I just need everyone with a fancy PhD to line up right in of the bar. Come on, guys and gals. Step forward."  
  
Doctors of all types stepped to the front, forming almost three rows. Two men kept their guns trained on them. The man on the balcony nodded to another man on the floor, who pulled out a picture to compare to the line-up.  
  
Aside from the thugs, it seemed that only Bruce was able to see the picture clearly. It was Jonathan Crane's mug-shot (and he found it oddly flattering for a mug-shot). _I need to do something,_ he thought. _I was supposed to have another minute before this happened._ His eyes drifted upward to the grandiose, vaulted ceiling. _I guess I'll have to make that minute._  
  
His eyes passed several glasses, a few taps, and Jenny's apron before he found what he was looking for: the silent alarm. A huddling bartender caught him looking, and his eyes pleaded with Bruce not to do a thing. The young, scared man was certain the criminals would make due with their threat and kill them both.  
  
Bruce couldn't take that chance. There was still a mystery woman about that could be looking for Crane. He studied as many of them as he could, watching for any nuance in their posture, eyes, or feet. None of the women seemed out of place.  
  
"Come on, come on now," the apparent leader urged. "I _know_ you're here. Just get in front _now_ and everything will be alright." Not a person stirred. The leader was getting aggravated. "Fine. I will just shoot one of them for each minute you don't come forward."  
  
"Wait," Bruce said. The bartender below whined. "Let's be reasonable."  
  
The leader motioned below, and now Bruce had a gun aimed at him. "Richie-Rich has something to say."  
  
"Maybe the guy left," Bruce suggested. He searched the floor with his foot, hoping that his movement wouldn't be noticed.  
  
"Oh no, he hasn't left. He's just hiding here, waiting like a coward while we spill your blood."  
  
 _Got it._ Bruce's toe flicked up an small cover on the ground, revealing a button instead of an outlet. He pressed it, then said, "Let's do this peacefully. No need to start killing."  
  
"Shut up!" his assigned thug shouted, raising his gun to intimidate.  
  
"Wait wait," the leader commanded. "Sounds like Bruce Wayne wants to give us a large sum of money."

Bruce held back a smile. A large sum of something was certainly on its way, but it wasn't money.  
  
* * *

The smell in the closet was an amalgam of cleaner, old-mop mildew, and women's perfume. Gunfire was heard beyond the door.  
  
"Oh my gosh..." Lucy uttered. Jenny huddled close and held her hand.  
  
"Shh," Jon whispered.  
  
"Oh shut up," Jenny scolded with a hush.  
  
 _You're right,_ Jon conceded. _This is because of me._  
  
* * *  
  
"It's the bat!" a man shouted.  
  
"Get outta here!" the leader shouted, firing more shots into the air. A murdered mammal fell to the ground, hitting a man's shoulder.  
  
Screams of fear and confusion echoed throughout the room. A mass of brown and black bats poured out of previously-closed vents. The swarm created a chaos that the masked criminals desperately wanted to escape from. It gave Bruce the chance to pull the silent alarm.

“Out, out!” the leader yelled. A bat grazed his arm. “Come on, get outta here!”

Another shot fired. Bruce wondered if his plan actually put more people in danger. _I need something better._ The police were on the way. Sure, the criminals might escape, but at least people wouldn't have been methodically executed. The hostage situation was over.

The screams continued. Bruce tried hard to keep sight of all the men, but it wasn't easy with the haze of frenzied bats in his vision. As the shots ceased, so did the screams. The timer on Bruce's bat-bringer was almost up.

It took several moments, but most of the bats attempted to retreat. Patrons slowly stood to their feet.

“Stay calm, everyone. The police should be here shortly. They're going to need your statements.”

“Some party, Bruce,” a doctor from the front line sneered.

“Little guano never hurt anyone,” he replied. He looked to the scared bartender at his side, and asked, “Hey, wasn't there another girl here?”

“Yeah...Jen. Where is she?”

“Stay here,” Bruce instructed. “I'll find her. Can you make sure no one leaves?”

“Uhh...I guess...”

“Great.”  
  
It was time to get the others.

The walls between the ballroom and the closet did little to quiet the din of the terrified, spoiled brats. Bruce cursed to himself as he realized that the gunshots were all the more audible. He knew Crane could probably handle it, but Lucy? What about Jenny?  
  
He rapped on the door to the closet. No one responded. _Good._ He knocked again, and announced, "It's Bruce. It's okay now."  
  
The door opened a sliver, and Lucy, bold as she was, poked her head out. "We heard shots."  
  
"It was fine. Batman showed up...of course now we have a bit of a rodent problem..."  
  
"So they've been caught?" Lucy asked.  
  
Bruce exhaled. _I'll have to give a description to the sketch artist, and run the image through my computers. Should check surveillance._ "I'm not sure about that," he lied. "But I know that they're gone. You'll have to stay and tell the police what you saw...maybe tell them about that woman?"  
  
Lucy opened the door fully. Jenny was relieved, but Crane (for obvious reasons) was not.  
  
"Did they come to rob everyone?" Jenny asked, holding onto Jon's arm.  
  
"No, they were just looking for someone...some doctor," Bruce explained.  
  
"Did they say who?" Jon inquired.  
  
"No. They just lined people up and compared them to a picture."  
  
"Did you happen to see the picture?" Lucy followed up with.  
  
"No," Bruce lied again. "I don't think anyone but the bad guys did."  
  
"So they were mistaken." Crane adjusted his tux.  
  
"Seems so," Bruce agreed, watching the nearly flawless performance of the man before him. "We should go back. Sooner we give our statements, the better."  
  
"And then what?" Lucy asked.  
  
"Then I can drive everyone home."

* * *

The first response team immediately called in more squad cars, and Commissioner Jim Gordon tagged along. As soon as the words “they were looking for some doctor” slipped from an officer's lips, Jim wanted to be involved. Batman had addressed a connection between the chemical robberies and Crane's formula earlier in the week. He didn't want another Narrows incident.

When he got to the scene and saw Crane, he couldn't pass up the opportunity to question him himself. He'd wanted to talk to him after Batman's lead, but didn't know where to look. So he took two officers and sectioned off Crane's little group of four; he would personally take each and every one of their statements.

Lucy and Bruce were the only ones who could give accurate descriptions, so they were spoken to first. Jenny's statement was next. Crane's was last. Jim knew that his would take the longest.  
  
"Why is he talking to Jonny Newspaper so long?" Lucy asked. Jenny remained silent, killing time by cleaning the bar.  
  
"He said he used to know some of these people," Bruce offered. "Maybe Jim is just covering all of his bases."  
  
"Jim?" Lucy stopped him. "Jim being the commissioner?"  
  
"Yeah, sorry. Commissioner Gordon."  
  
Jon's discomfort was rising with each word that fell from the good commissioner's lips.  
  
"So your acquaintances are unaware of who you are?"  
  
"Are we done here?"  
  
"Answer the question, Crane."  
  
"I honestly don't know."  
  
"Would you like me to ask them?"  
  
Lips curling, Crane stepped to the side, showing said acquaintances his back. "One is a friend from college. She knows who I am, but she's not involved."  
  
"Any idea why these men would be looking for you?"  
  
"Your answer is as good as mine, Gordon."  
  
"Look, Crane," Jim said, pulling out a card. "I don't like it, but we may have to work together on this one. You call this number if this happens again."  
  
"You know that won't be possible if they get me."  
  
"Then I need to know your current address. I can send some squad cars to—"  
  
"Oh, your facilities aren't equipped with a directory?"  
  
Jim shook his head. "Crane, don't play games. I'm trying to _help_. You're off our grid and you know it."  
  
"It's a leaky grid, Gordon."  
  
"Fine. We'll talk later." Jim patted him on the shoulder, much to Crane's disgust. "Come on," he directed the officers near him, "let's get more of these statements." Looking at Bruce's group, he said, "You're good to go. I'd advise you to let Officer Barnes escort you to the exit."  
  
* * *  
  
 _Good thing I drove the one with the backseat,_ Bruce thought, unlocking the luxury car. "Now who lives where?" He looked at Jon and Jenny in the backseat. "I'm guessing you're pretty close to _Le Café_ , Jon? Jenny? Lucy?"  
  
"Me too," Lucy said. "Right near it. You can drop me off at the store."  
  
"No way, honey," Jenny said. "You shouldn't be walking alone. Just play it safe tonight."  
  
"Ugh..."  
  
"She's right," Bruce told her.  
  
"I live in that building on the corner. The tan one."  
  
Bruce nodded. "I know it. Jenny?"  
  
"Richwood," Jenny answered. "By the park, but before the houses get all nice."  
  
"You have a driveway?" Lucy asked her.  
  
"Yeah. It's a bitch when it snows. I don't even have a car."  
  
"Jon?" Bruce asked.  
  
Jon licked his lips. "Watson."  
  
"Wow," Lucy exclaimed as Bruce started the car. "That street's _tiny_."  
  
"It is," Crane swallowed.  
  
"Looks like you're last, Jon," Bruce informed him. "Off to the park we go."  
  
* * *  
  
Watson was indeed a tiny connection street with a total of eight small apartment buildings, and off-street parking on one side of the road. Bruce guessed that each building had six units at most, with the shorter ones having only three.

Jon directed Bruce toward one of those short buildings. Its green facade was peeling and faded; it hadn't seen a lot of love from the landlord lately, a rather depressing site for Uptown. Watson wasn't a road that could be seen from a main route, so it wasn't important for anyone to immediately address.

Bruce put the car in park just outside, and remarked, "Hell of a night."

Jon was still in the backseat. "No different than any other night in this city."  
  
"In this world. Gotham isn't so bad."  
  
"It is," Jon corrected, hand hesitant on the handle. "You surprised me."  
  
Bruce turned around. "I surprised you?"  
  
"You acted quickly. I expected you to stay in there with us."  
  
"What can I say," Bruce shrugged. "Instinct, I guess."  
  
"Well-planned instinct. I heard what you told those men. You diverted them from searching the closet."  
  
 _Don't forget, Bruce. This man knows the art of manipulation._ "Yeah, well I didn't know what they wanted. I just thought you guys should be safe."  
  
"I'm avoiding saying thank you."  
  
"I know. It's nothing. Just get some sleep."  
  
"You drive better than I've heard."  
  
"Thanks?"  
  
"Good night," Jon finally said, stepping out of the car.

  
Bruce waited until Jon made it inside, and then a little after that, just in case someone was waiting for him in his apartment. A warm light on the third and final floor popped on. Jon's silhouette grew in the window. The man peered through the curtains at Bruce. The richer waved, earning an eye-roll, then drove away, eager to put on the Batsuit and scan tonight's police chatter.

He'd stop the relentless gang going after Crane. After Jon. After...he swore it wasn't personal.

His parents insisted otherwise.  
  



	5. Coffee - Part 5

A newspaper plopped on Bruce Wayne's desk.

"Read it," Lucius said.

The man's eyes scanned the front page, which only had articles on the mystery of the gala, something about a pop-star, the President's latest speech, and a major drug bust in the Narrows.

"Back of that section," Lucius directed.

Bruce separated the paper on his desk and flipped over to the page the older man referred to. It was a small blurb that should have been a much bigger one. "This sounds like Crane."

"It sure does, but read about the victims."

_...of the victims, which were convulsing on the scene. Doctors report that all victims appeared to have inhaled a toxin, and while the nature of it is similar to the one released a few years ago in the Narrows, it seems to be a lesser or even knock-off version of the drug._

"This should be a bigger story. An entire super-market?"

"You're telling me," Lucius remarked.

"Someone is covering this up," Bruce deduced. "Those people were a test group."

"And what of the gala? No one knows who they were looking for after almost a week?"

"No. Gordon knows, but he's being careful."

Bruce told Lucius very little about the relationship between he and Crane. All he knew was that Batman was watching him, and Bruce just happened to run into him at the gala. There was no talk of coffee and conversations. Still, Lucius seemed to know what ran through his mind.

"Watch yourself Bruce. Don't get too close, or the next thing you know those fellows will be robbing you."

_You're right._ Bruce hadn't been to the coffee shop since then. He felt bad about leaving Lucy like that, but distancing himself from Crane was a priority. He _was_ getting too close. "I know."

Lucius turned to leave the office, but hesitated. "Hey, what happened to those muffins you've been bringing in?"

"I haven't been there this week."

"That's a shame. They were good."

* * *

Batman surveyed the store: three bodies, no Croc. Soon, officers would be on the scene, and he'd have to make a choice between escaping and revealing his identity.

Deaths always unnerved him, and while he found himself grateful for the emotions it brought once he was back at the manor, he hated the way it destroyed his focus. He had to leave, he had to follow Croc, and he had to make sure he didn't unleash the full force of his own power on the criminal once he found him. Balancing vengeance, guilt, and justice was not his forte.

_I should have gone to Ted's,_ he thought. Some time ago, he'd made a choice between hitting Croc's hideout and safeguarding Crane. These bodies were the consequence.

He left the store, acting on impulse, perhaps retribution, and ventured to Ted's Butcher and Deli, just like he should have the second he learned its purpose. No more listening, no more gathering intelligence. This would be a take-down. Croc would be arrested, and no more chemicals would be breathed by innocent citizens.

A feeling of dread stirred in his stomach as his motorcycle approached Fifth. An unmistakable scent of roasted meat pervaded the air, as did the sounds of sirens bouncing between the buildings. _No,_ he thought, _it can't be._

He parked in a discreet location and scaled the nearest structure, hoping to get a bird's-eye view of the blaze formerly known as Croc's hideout. The building could not be rescued.

Batman wanted to believe that maybe Croc had a boss, and this was the repayment for failure or possibly betrayal. Such a rift would cause both parties to appear on his radar. The possibility lingered. More likely than not, he knew that Croc was just relocating, setting a fire that torched any evidence of his presence.

Batman was getting sloppy. Jonathan Crane consumed his focus.

Perhaps he should start treating Crane as a suspect again. Start separating them.

Batman descended from his perch, knowing what he had to do, also knowing that he couldn't. Still, it was worth a shot to try, to keep putting himself into the situation and not ignore the choice he had to make.

_Maybe I've already made my choice,_ he wondered.

The sun would be up soon. Authorities scanned the area for witnesses and suspicious individuals. The streets weren't safe for him for him anymore. He sped off into the twilight, whispering mantras of focus into the wind.

* * *

"Ten thousand dollars."

"What?"

Lucy held out her hand. "That coffee will be ten thousand dollars."

"I'm sorry, Lucy," Bruce apologized, handing over his credit card. "I mean it. I'm sorry."

Lucy left him hanging. _"Cash,"_ she added, extra emphasis on the "I really hate you" part.

"Luce!" Tara scolded, handing Bruce the coffee. "Did you ever think that maybe he didn't want to put you in danger?"

"Yes," she replied. "I don't care. He should call, instead of being a wimp. He should try to make sure that _I_ wasn't put in danger."

"He's standing right here," Bruce said.

"Yeah, well you also scared away all my regulars!" Lucy blamed.

Bruce was surprised. "All of them?" _Jon isn't here, is he?_

"She's just kidding!" Tara laughed nervously. "Not all of the regulars are gone."

"Jonny Newspaper doesn't come in anymore!" Lucy snapped.

"That _you_ know! I _told_ you, Luce!" Tara said. "He's probably just as scared as you are!"

"I'm not scared!"

"Yes you are! You called in for your first two shifts afterward! I had to cover for you! And then Danny made it seem like it was my fault!"

"I think I'll let you two girls work this out," Bruce remarked.

"Leaving already?" There stood Jon, freshly bought newspaper in his arm.

_"Told you!"_ Tara whispered to Lucy.

"Shut up!" Looking at Bruce, who looked at Jon, she said,  
"Hey! You didn't pay for that yet!"

"We should call the Bat-man on him," Jon smirked.

Lucy's arms crossed. "And where have you been?"

"I was here when Miss Tara worked a double-shift, I believe."

"You were!" Tara smiled. Jonny Newspaper began to catch her eye too.

Jon's cocky eyebrow was all Lucy needed. "I'm going on break," the brunette grunted, storming away.

"Um, okay," Tara said. "So...Mr. Wayne?"

As Bruce handed over his card, Jon pulled out a few dollars for her. "Consider this to be overdue cab fare. Nothing more."

_I can't use him as bait for Croc._ "You don't have to."

"I did. Sit."

Taking the newspaper from Jon, he replied, "Thanks," and sat down while the other man ordered. Jon did not make this easy.

And it didn't get any easier when Jon sat down with that knowing grin on his face. "You should have checked up on her."

Bruce looked up from the paper. "I wanted to give everyone space."

Jon gently pulled down on Bruce's wrist, thus lowering the obstructing paper. "She was quite scared. It was rather obvious."

_To you, maybe._ "If I admit that I'm wrong, will you let me finish the article?"

"Maybe."

Jon's hand didn't move. Bruce did not care for this. _You need to let go, Jon._ "I was wrong."

"Good." Jon pulled more anyway, enjoying the feeling of skin beneath his fingers. "What are you reading?"

Bruce set the paper on the table. "Comics, actually."

"Delightful. Comics are not articles."

"Why am I sitting here?"

"Because I made you, and you don't have what it takes to stand up to me." A smile and a sip.

_Resist. This has to do with the gala._ "Is that so?"

"It is. You also need to tell me what the police have told you."

_There it is._ "There are no leads." Bruce didn't lie.

"No idea who they were looking for?"

"Nope." Bruce picked off a piece of Jon's muffin and popped it in his mouth. _This is good._ "I wouldn't worry about it."

"That is _my_ muffin, Bruce."

_What the hell am I doing?_ "And?"

"And you'll make it up to me." Jon tapped his finger on a random portion of text on the paper, looking up at Bruce from beneath the dark hair falling in his face. "Especially since I was so...worried about you."

_You're worried about those men. You should be._ "Okay. I owe you." _I won't let them hurt you._

* * *

With Allie out on maternity leave, Bruce hired Laura McCall to fill in—well, tasked a temp agency to hire her. He already regretted it. She wasn't exactly the _best_ employee in the world. During meetings, or really any time when anyone might not be looking, she alleviated her boredom with solitaire. Bruce wondered why he'd left it installed on that computer.

If only Bruce could see her now. She didn't even look at Jon when he approached her desk, a carry-tray of coffee in his hands. She'd ignored clients even more.

"Excuse me," Jon said, knocking on the desk.

"Hang on..." A few more clicks. She lost. She turned to Jon. "Can I help you?"

_These are getting cold._ Jon rocked on his heels, impatient. "Yes, you can help me. Preferably before these coffees get even colder. I need to speak to Mr. Wayne, please."

"We all do. He's in a meeting. Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes, and he missed it."

"I get it. Name?"

"Jon."

"Jon who?"

His conceited smile made her nervous. "Newspaper."

“The muffin guy?”

Jon looked at her, forehead creased in confusion. “What?” Her expression read serious. “Yes. The muffin guy.”

She snapped the gum in her mouth. “I'll get him.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

After eight days, Lucy ceased being mad at Bruce, and even took his credit card again. That didn't stop the relentless (and true) statements about Bruce being head-over-heels for Crane. Her latest jibe included changing his surname to "Newspaper."

Which is why she wrote "Mr. Newspaper's muffins" on each box he picked up that day. The other attendees of the meeting didn't quite understand, but they gobbled up the muffins anyway.

The door creaked open. Laura snuck inside the meeting, a bad habit that Bruce couldn't seem to break her out of. "Sir?" she addressed Bruce.

"Yes, Laura?" _I thought I asked her to start scheduling appointments?_

"A, um...Mr. Newspaper is here to see you."

Lawrence chided, “Seems like he wants his muffins back, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce rolled his eyes at the man. This was a welcome distraction. _Never mind. She gets a coffee tomorrow._ He looked around the table. "Meeting adjourned. We'll pick this up later."

Laura followed him back to the elevator. “Why'd you take his muffins?”

As if it were any of her business. “It's an inside joke.”

“I don't get it.”

“I always buy out the store's stock when there's a meeting,” he lied. “So he asked the girl to start labeling them as his as a joke.”

“Oh.”

_Worst employee ever._ “I need you to send out a memo to everyone who was at the meeting. Reschedule it for three.”

“I think Lawrence already has another meeting scheduled with a client.”

Bruce smiled as the door opened to their floor. “Then we should definitely make it three. Copy me on it if you could.”

“Uh, okay.”

As they approached her desk, he noticed that the lobby was missing a certain something, or rather, someone. “Where is he?”

“He's in your office.”

Bruce bit his tongue, hoping Jon was a terrible snoop, and walked in. Jon sat there, taking up residence in _his_ chair.

"It's cold,” he grinned. “You took too long."

"You brought coffee all the way from uptown to see me?" Bruce checked the door he was certain he shut, just to make sure that he did, in fact, shut it. Just in case. Alternately, he decided to stay at least ten—no—five feet away from Crane at all times. At least in this building.

"Admittedly, it's all a ruse to extract information."

"About the gala?" Bruce sat in the chair that people like Jon normally sat in. "Still no leads. No one knows who they were looking for." He knew that Crane was aware of being the men's target, but Crane's insistence on bothering Bruce had him wondering the real extent of Crane's knowledge.

"This is a fantastic chair."

_I could join you._ "Do you...know who?"

"Jenny is afraid to go back to work."

_Make sure that's true._ "Is she?"

"Her boss isn't happy with her. I suspect it's because she came down with the 'flu' recently."

"I'll make some phone calls."

"Good." Jon stood, taking his coffee. Bruce's cup sat alone in the tray. "You can have your chair back."

Bruce didn't want to let Jon go. _Has he really changed?_ He looked for excuse to get closer, lock eyes, maybe more, and just get this out of his system so that things could return to normal. The five-feet rule changed to three feet.

"Jon." Bruce stood and touched Jon's shoulder. _Okay. One foot. No closer._

"Yes?" Their gazes latched; it was that moment in the car all over again.

_Don't. Just let him go. He's a criminal. Do not do this._ "Thanks for dropping by. Meetings can get a little drawn out."

"So I saved you from misery? I should have waited a little longer." Jon walked away and reached for the door. "You prefer decaf, yes?"

_Lucius is right. I am getting too close. He knows what I drink. I know where he lives. He came to visit me here._ "Yeah, decaf."

"Good. That's a triple espresso." And Jon left.

* * *

_"What are you going to do? Whisk him away to that little_ Batcave _of yours and have your way with him?"_

_I'm not!_

_"Oh Bruce. So pathetic. If you hadn't killed us, then we'd still be around to turn you straight again."_

_Now is not the time!_

Batman stayed still in the shadow of Crane's single bedroom. He hadn't found much, surprisingly, aside from a few overdue utility bills, and regular, over-the-counter ibuprofen and acetaminophen. He _did_ find the mask, though it was packed at the bottom of a bag placed on the very top shelf in the uttermost extreme corner of Crane's closet.

The closet. He could smell the mix of detergent and Jon on the clothes hanging inside. He restrained himself from grabbing a shirt and taking in the scent.

The light in the other room kicked on, and he heard the sound of keys jingling as they were set on a surface. Crane had his shirt half-pulled over his head when he entered his room. Tossing it in the direction of a laundry basket on the floor, he flicked the light-switch up, but the light didn't turn on.

"Damn it," Crane swore. Shirtless, he left the room to obtain another light bulb, and returned with that and a flashlight. His heart stopped when the light passed over the shadow that was Batman.

"What do you want?" he demanded, angry.

For a brief moment, Batman hoped his voice wouldn't give; he'd been talking to Crane so often now that it would be relatively easy to not only recognize the tone of his voice, but the nuances in speech too. "Those men from the gala two weeks ago. What do they want?"

"You tell me."

"Your formula is being used on test subjects around the city."

"And since you don't have me pinned against my own wall, I suppose that you believe I'm not behind it." Batman didn't answer. "You've put me through hell, Bat. I'm not telling you a thing."

"The news about it is being squashed. An insider working for you?"

"Possibly. I don't know. I probably know less than you do."

"Let's start with what you do know."

"I read the news, Bat. I connected it just as you have. As to how they obtained my formula or why the tests are being kept quiet? Could it be that there is yet another leak in Gordon's bought-and-paid-for office?"

"What do you know of Killer Croc?"

"A brute. I've never met him personally. But if I were you, I wouldn't cross him. Even you would walk away a broken man."

"Sounds like you care, Crane."

"I care nothing for you, but I want this stopped just as much as you do."

"Then tell me what you know."

"I've already _told_ you," Crane said. "I don't know anything. Though..." The flashlight's beam went askew.

Batman's eyes wandered to the dimly lit skin of Jonathan's chest. Refocusing, he watched the more important parts of Crane as the doctor perused his mind for the rest of that sentence.

"...The formula would induce hallucinations. Possibly recurring, though not constant."

"The cure?"

"Whatever _you_ did for the Narrows should work fine. I won't help you if you don't remember."

_It doesn't work,_ thought Batman.

Crane pointed at him with his flashlight. "Get the hell out," he growled. Batman had beat him to it.

* * *

Bruce would be lying if he said he didn't feel guilty about breaking into Crane's apartment last night to rummage through his things. He'd also be a complete frigging idiot for admitting that he broke into someone's place.

He'd also be lying if he said he didn't think of Crane for those few moments before slumber. He wanted him _bad_ now. It became a bit much.

So naturally, he decided the best course of action was to drop the whole thing and never see Crane again. Try as he did to make that happen, it just wasn't an option. Croc's operation never halted after the fire, and all Batman and the police could do was pick up the messes. Someone good _had_ to be pulling the strings, and since no violence erupted around his gang, the fire was definitely a clean-up to eliminate leads.

That's why he stopped by to pick up a dozen muffins and two coffees at _Le Café_. That and the guilt. Jon wasn't there, and Bruce decided it was his turn to drop by, all in the name of research.

Bruce pulled up to Jon's building at 9 in the morning. At 9:02, Crane answered the door, tentative and suspicious.

"What?"

"I brought breakfast."

"Go away." The door shut.

Bruce knocked again. "You said I owe you a muffin."

The door opened. "You do. Yet I see twelve. I don't need interest. Do I look like the mob to you?"

"Peace offering?"

"Fine."

Jon's home was certainly brighter during the day; the small, one-bedroom apartment had an open layout, but scarcely furnished. Bruce recalled how easy the lack of items made his night, but in the daytime, it looked sad and pathetic. Bruce noticed a chill when he made it inside; he deduced that the overdue utility bills had something to do with it, then wondered why Jon didn't cut _Le Café_ from his budget.

The more urgent thought? Jon looked _good_ in a blue tee and pitch-black pajama bottoms.

"Excuse my wardrobe. I wasn't expecting you."

Bruce blushed. "Did I wake you?"

"I was already awake. I just don't see the sense in getting dressed two hours before going out." Jon pulled down some napkins from the top of refrigerator and handed some to Bruce. "Why are you here?"

"Like I said—"

"Breakfast. Of course."

"Snippy?"

"I didn't sleep well last night, but it's none of your concern."

_Actually, it is._ "I fixed the problem with Jenny."

"She will thank you." He reached for yesterday's newspaper. "You didn't bring a fresh one for me."

"I was supposed to? I thought you said you didn't collect interest."

"It's common for the guest to bring gifts to the host," Jon smiled. "Sit already?"

Bruce looked at the two bar-stools set beside a rather narrow breakfast nook extending from Jon's counter. "Okay," he complied, sitting.

"Your coat?" Jon held out his hands.

"You want me to stay?"

"You have to help me with that crossword."

"Ah..." Bruce removed his coat and handed it to Jon, who promptly set it on the second stool, a rather cheeky-bastard thing to do.

Circling around to the opposite side of the _very narrow_ eating surface, he folded the paper to the crossword and set it right next to Bruce's hand, which picked at a muffin. Jon blamed the narrowness of the counter. "It's about ritzy things," he explained, picking up a pencil.

"It's blank," Bruce noticed.

"I thought you'd like it. Here. Wayne...blank. Five letters."

"Manor."

"Not Bruce?"

"Wayne comma blank?"

"Wayne blank."

"You know the answer."

"I was making sure you were smart enough to know too." Jon followed the statement with a smug swig of coffee. "Soy. Good boy. Next."

Bruce rested his chin in his palm and read the upside-down text. "That one," he pointed, "is easy."

Jon leaned in, tapping the eraser end of the pencil against his lips. "They're all easy."

Watching the rubber hit those soft, pink pillows, Bruce thought, _Cut it out._ "Why do them then?"

Jon bopped him lightly on the nose with the pencil. "Because they keep me sane." A statement with a grain of truth.

The counter got narrower with every second. Bruce's fingers dug deep into his leg. Even as Batman, he'd never been _this_ close to Crane. To Jon. "What is it, then?"

"It's 'charity,'" Jon answered, penciling the word in. "Just like your visit."

"This isn't charity," Bruce said. "It's..." _Reconnaissance? No._ "...Repayment."

The eraser moved from Jon's lips to trace the creases of Bruce's mouth. "I think it's something else entirely."

_"Why bother training to uphold our legacy? You're ruining it all, Bruce. You are a waste."_

_Maybe Lucius is right. Maybe Jon is right. Maybe I've just been...repressing everything. Letting my violence out on the criminals, but not acknowledging anything else._ "And that is?" Bruce's hand clenched his leg harder, while his other let his chin dip closer to Jon. _Not with Crane. Why does this have to happen with him?_

"Don't be daft," Jon whispered. The pencil hit the counter as their lips pressed together.

Jon's touch was softer than his words, and his mouth even more.

Bruce let Jon lead, wanting to maintain the illusion of distance and keep Jon comfortable. Both reasons conflicted. It took all of Bruce's might to maintain Jon's pace, as Jon took the kiss slow, barely parting his lips as he pushed closer.

"Now get out," Jon muttered against Bruce's skin. When Bruce reached for his coat and coffee, Jon scolded him. "Leave it."

Bruce figured that he ought have expected this bossy, controlling nature from Jon, but he did as he was told, and left.

He didn't start the car right away. Instead he rested, heart pumping, body twitching, letting swear words and romantic sweet-nothings escape his lips as he let the fear and hatred run their course through his body.

He hoped this wasn't just a ruse by Crane to study fear in another way, and that maybe this was real, and that Crane really, truly liked him. _He can't like me. I'm...too close. This needs to end._

"Fuck," he swore. Things hadn't been this complicated in a long time.


	6. Coffee - Part 6

Batman didn't really like hanging out in the sewers. It wasn't just the clinging, penetrating smell that only four showers could cure (with some elbow-grease from Alfred for the Batsuit), it was the ever-changing size, shape, and temperature of the moist environment that he griped over the most.

The lack of light certainly suited his needs, but hiding in the shadows still required the space to do so. The wide bits of the sometimes curved, sometimes jutted, waste-filled tunnels would be nice if they offered any nook or cranny for him to hide in. Sometimes he'd be able to find a well-placed pipe to cling to, but most of the time, he had to risk digging into the ceiling itself, which came with its own structural and tactical risks.

The narrow parts of the sewers didn't offer his enemies much room to maneuver without running into him. The skinny, concrete walk-ways that ran alongside the river of sewage barely left enough space for criminals to walk side-by-side. Though constricting paths often let him funnel his enemies into a position for easier take-downs, he still didn't have a good place to hide to do so, lest he dip his toes in the water and hang onto the already slippery path with his fingers (a feat which was difficult to pull off for more than a few minutes without extra support anyway).

The narrowest sections of the sewer could hardly fit a child, let alone a bulky man dressed in a Kevlar suit. Structural cubbies prevented flooding, and the rest of the spaces houses large pipes that he'd certainly risk drowning in during the wrong time of day.

The water was the worst. The intricate electrical equipment integrated into the Batsuit functioned well in rain, but hadn't been tested in fluids with a high ratio of particles to water. Batman preferred not to test the suit during a high-risk situation like this—a last resort only.

Then there were the sounds. Water rushed, water drained, water dripped, which meant that every surface had its own layer of water. The splish-splash of even the tiniest of tip-toes could be heard over the roar of the other unique sounds of liquid. The acoustics of the tunnels themselves amplified each audible vibration, making even the rats sound like monsters at times.

The cherry on top of this botulism-infested sundae of a tactical-disaster area was the quiet, sometimes dead transmission signal, caused by both the depth and the series of metal pipes draining into the channels.

Batman really, really didn't like hanging out in the sewers.

He wondered if that's why Croc chose them as his new base of operations, or if it was just a cool lair to boost his namesake. A smart decision either way, not only because Batman hated them so much, but because the sewers provided access to pretty much anywhere in the entire city. The sewers did lack a method of fast travel, but it also lacked buildings, stop lights, traffic, pedestrians, and cops. A criminal outfit with a decent knowledge of the sewer's layout no doubt has the advantage underground.

Batman counted himself among the fortunate when he heard Croc and his gang approach one of the few perfect hiding spots he'd managed to find.

The crook walked amidst a group of five thugs, his tall figure jutting out like a castle overseeing the shoddy homes of peasants. Though their formation appeared to be for protection, everyone knew that Croc could probably take them all out in one fell swoop. The circle was about status, even in the sewers.

Still, Batman knew that he couldn't take them all out at once. Silently as he could, he followed them at a distance, hoping like hell that the pipe he crawled along didn't suddenly stop.

“I want Crane by midnight tomorrow,” Croc stated. “Or I start hiring. Got it?”

“But boss, we ain't got no leads!” said a thug to his right.

Croc sneered in his direction. “I don't  _ care _ what you think. Just get it done.”

The man shook. “R-right, boss.”

The group continued on, footsteps echoing throughout the cavernous channels, and they reached one of those narrow paths. The nervous fellow let everyone else take lead, knowing that Croc would punish him if he didn't put himself at risk at the back of the line.

It was a bad decision.

The man felt his legs go first. Lifted before he could scream. A hand clasped over his mouth. Croc and company didn't flinch. Unnoticed, Batman lowered himself and his captive with a strong cable, dipping their heads somewhat close to the water that started rushing by. The move had the thug quaking in his shoes, but its actual purpose was to mask their sounds.

“Why is Croc after Crane?”

The man broke easily. “I uh...I dunno!” He received a shake for being so loud. “He's uh...working for that Isley! Pamela Isley!”

_ Who? _ “What's her game?”

“I dunno! I swear it! She just wants a chemicals man!”

_ Pamela Isley. Pamela Isley. Pamela Isley. _ Batman gripped the man's shirt hard. “And if I find out you're lying—”

The cable shook. The two rose from the water, face to face with Croc.

“Into the drink for you, Jonah,” Croc stated, ripping his former muscle from Batman's grip and throwing him into the river of waste. “And now, Bats...we deal with you.”

Croc's horde stood guard, guns trained on Batman, as Croc flung his foe into a wall. Charging, Croc misstepped, ill-timing his swipe at Batman. Batman took the opportunity to roll, and remembered that he didn't quite have a place to roll to. He decided to take out some of the other men to make room, throwing their weapons into the water where a frantic Jonah screamed for Batman's help.

But Batman's plan was not without flaws. He knew that Croc was not an honorable fighter, but he still left himself open as he took out the men, thinking that by paring down the count of his enemies that he'd have an advantage. Croc didn't care. His men were disposable, and he proved that when he threw two more of them into the water just to take down Batman.

Yet those men remained loyal, clinging to Batman, attempting to drown him. Only Jonah stayed frantic, splashing about, until Croc silenced him. Batman couldn't do much about it. The men pulled, and Croc taunted, happy to just watch as his minions fought both the water and the Bat, while Jonah's lifeless body drifted away, probably off to clog a drainage pipe.

And then Batman couldn't bear it. Try as he could, he couldn't break free, so he did the next best thing and played dead. The men cheered, waiting as they watched Batman, just to be sure that he wasn't faking, and eventually crawled out of the water.

Batman didn't defeat Croc, but he still got the information he needed.

* * *

_Le Café_ was quiet—too quiet—when Bruce entered. He briefly wondered if the stench of the sewers still clung to him, and scared away all of the patrons. Bored, Lucy even waved at him when he came in. The lack of her usual disgust eased the fear that the smell of the sewers brought him.

“Hey,” she said. “What's up?”

_What's up?_ “Uh...” Bruce blinked, taken back by her demeanor. Of all things to catch him off-guard, Lucy's out-of-character statement got him. “Just another morning.”

“Staying today?”

Bruce looked for Jon. He really, really, really wanted to see him. Especially after the kiss yesterday, and  _especially_ after hearing Croc's plan to kidnap him by tonight. Jon's absence worried him.  _Should I stop by his apartment again? After what happened?_ “No.”

“Oh.” Lucy seemed dejected. “Okay. Same?”

“Just the drink, please.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“What's wrong?”

“Tara's not here yet, and I only had like three people this morning. All to-go orders.” She sidled over and started Bruce's drink. “And Jon keeps coming in later and later.” She set the finished drink on the counter. “And you know what? I kind of like seeing you two everyday. I mean, Tara has this massive crush on both of you, and teasing you about _your_ crush is the highlight of my day. I've been so bored today that I've actually considered going back to school.”

_There she is._ “Going back to school is a good thing. Teasing me probably is not.”

“But in a perfect world, you'd stop being Bruce Wayne and see how much he likes you.”

Heat generated in Bruce's collar. “What about Tara?”

“She's way young.” Lucy sighed. “It's like I have to watch over her all the time, and she gets these lame crushes on famous people. Meanwhile, there's this kid she had class with last semester who totally wanted her, and she's oblivious.”

“This a whole new side of you, Lucy.”

“Yeah well...I'm bored, okay?” she huffed. “Anyway, I guess I'll give you that for free today, even though you can afford it. Just like...I guess payment for listening to me. I know I'm overusing the word, but just don't tell anyone I was so bored today, alright?”

Bruce winked. “Alright.”  _You're better for me than Crane. Why him?_ “Tell Tara I said hi. See ya tomorrow, Lucy.”

“See ya, Bruce.”

* * *

For all of the paperwork on Bruce's desk, one piece got his attention: a plain, yellow sticky-note with “Pamela Isley” written on it. He didn't have a lot of time to research her after peeling the sewer from his skin last night. To put it bluntly, he badly wanted to rescue Crane, but fell asleep at the keyboard in the Batcave. He woke up to Alfred nudging him, and then saw the hodge-podge of articles he'd researched while asleep. No matches were found for “asdfhtu4” and “nvjmg99#$mnas,” but the computer wondered if Bruce meant “asphalt” and “Nevada Miles Per Gallon Route 99” instead. He did not.

His plan for the night: get home, do his own research, then track down Gordon and let him know of the lead.

A knock on the door prompted his eyes to move. He swore at himself, thinking that perhaps someone sought the paperwork, and then beckoned the guest in. It was Crane, dressed in a rather nice, dark suit that glistened blue when the light hit it just right. The man neglected to wear a tie, but the attire fit the building. A carry-tray of coffee balanced in his hands.

“That assistant of yours is dreadful,” he complained. “She took my coat this time, but didn't bother to check your appointments. Her boyfriend is outside, as well.”

Bruce stood, still shocked and relieved that Crane was okay and came to visit him. “She's a temp. The other girl needed an extra two weeks.”

“This is the same woman you sent out with Lucy for a dress?”

_Word gets around that little shop._ “No. I have an assistant and a secretary.”

“I see.” Crane smirked as he closed the space between them. “So, Mr. Wayne. I believe we have much to discuss.”

_Was he followed?_ “About the gala again?”

“Charming. No.” Jon handed him a coffee—this time, the correct order—and sat on the edge of Bruce's desk. It was both sexy and unprofessional. “Bruce Wayne likes boys. How will this play out for you?”

_Not well. Unfortunately, the media might care less about your criminal record than they do your gender._ “Who said anything about my preferences?”

“Should you be caught in this affair that we'll most surely engage in, it wouldn't be favorable to this image of...stupid playboy you play pretend with.” Crane's smile stayed as he sipped his drink.

“One boy, then,” he admitted, realizing the ridiculousness of hiding underneath the eye of a trained professional. He had to focus on concealing Batman more than he did his sexuality.

“Oh, but that's not what the headlines will say. Besides, one boy or all boys, sexuality isn't as clear-cut as the mainstream would have you believe. Anyone who has studied psychology _should_ know that.”

Wide-open windows; Bruce wondered how many peeping-toms stole a look into his office every day. It didn't matter. Engaging in anything with Crane, at least in his office, would be a very, very bad idea. But...

“I can at least take you to dinner tonight,” Bruce offered. Though it'd put him out in the public, it _might_ keep Croc's thugs away.

“Is that the best of ideas?” Jon asked, earnest. “The papparazzi will be all over you. If you so much as _glance_ at me in the same way you do at the café, our faces will be in the paper.”

_You know they will recognize you, and that “Bruce” will find out who you really are._ “Maybe something more private?”

Jon's eyes lit up with a ferocity that had Bruce wondering if Jon was just feisty or out to rob him. “My cooking skills involve paying Lucy and Tara to do it for me. Of course, there are other take-out spots on Elmwood that—”

“I can take you to my place.” _Just don't snoop around._ “Say...once I get out of here.”

Jon shifted even closer, but his smile faded into something more genuine and peaceful. Nope, clearly not out for Bruce's money, which offered a worrisome prospect. “And you get out when?”

“Six or seven.”

“Make it six?”

_Perfect. I'll have enough time to get ready at night._ Bruce nodded. “Meet here?”

“Pick me up?”

_I don't like the idea of you being home alone._ “How about the café? We can get coffee before dinner.”

A soft brunet eyebrow dipped. “Coffee before dinner? How unconventional.”

Suddenly, a panic hit Bruce. What was he going to do with Crane once night fell? Would things escalate?  _Can I hide who I am from him if they do?_ He couldn't just rightfully send Jon back home to meet Croc's gang, despite knowing that he'd be out there as the Bat to protect him.  _If things go wrong...if they get him before I do..._

Another knock. The door opened quickly. If Bruce's temporary secretary was any good, she would have warned Lucius that Bruce had a guest already.

“Mr. Wayne.” What should have been a normal greeting came out with a tinge of skepticism. Mr. Fox instantly recognized the man so close to Bruce. He felt he knew Crane a bit more intimately than most, since he successfully deciphered his formula. The components—and where to get them—told Lucius a lot about the man.

“Ah, Lucius,” Bruce said, stepping back from Crane. “Come on in. We were just finishing.”

Jon took Bruce's hand and shook. “Good day, Mr. Wayne,” he said, slipping past Lucius on the way out.

“You wanna tell me what that was about?” Lucius asked, condemnation in his voice.

“Just research,” Bruce lied. _When did it become more? Why did it become more?_

“I don't like him,” Lucius said. “You know what he did. You know what he's capable of. Being his friend isn't going to be bad for just Bruce Wayne.”

“It's fine, Lucius. I appreciate your concern—”

“But you're just going to ignore me anyway.” The man shook his head, disappointed. “Anyway, I need those papers signed soon, Mr. Wayne. We've got investors coming in tomorrow.”

“And the sewer plans?”

“Down in archives, next to that God-awful stench of a suit—which I tested and is okay, by the way. Police got the anonymous tip about that corpse. From what I gather, they're investigating the drainage pipes now. Hush hush, of course.”

“Listening to the police radio again?” Bruce asked. “Thought you weren't big on breaking the law.”

“I'm not, but from what I figure, you get the police down there fast, this Croc of yours will have to surface. Just looking out for your...best interests.”

“Nice thinking,” Bruce replied. He sat back down at his desk and picked up his first real piece of paper for the day. “I'll have these to you soon.”

“Great. Tread carefully, Bruce.”

“Absolutely.”  
  



	7. Coffee - Part 7

Bruce left early, hoping that Crane wouldn't mind absconding an hour earlier. Of course, the possibility that Jon wouldn't be at _Le Café_ yet existed, but he knew that he could just order their coffees and get to his apartment to pick him up. During winter, sunlight faded fast, and he didn't want to give Croc's crooks an edge.

He spent some time researching Pamela Isley, since he needed that information badly and knew his plans were now skewed. He found a link to botany, and a couple of abstracts and studies with her name on them regarding—much to his delight—chemical compounds in plants and their effects on organic tissue. He couldn't figure a motive, but understanding a little bit more about the person behind the robberies and Crane's copied toxin gave him a much needed edge.

But in his haste to do Batman's homework, he forgot to notify Alfred about the  _other_ part of the night. He dialed the manor's number.

“ _Yes, Master Wayne?”_

“I'm having a guest over tonight. Would you mind cooking a vegetarian meal? No chicken stock or anything.”

“ _Why, I do believe I have quite a few ingredients on hand, sir. Who, may I ask, is coming?”_

Bruce cleared his throat.  _Rachel._ “Crane.”

“ _Are you out of your mind, sir? I hope I don't have to remind you of what he did to the city, let alone Miss Dawes. Do you really think she'd approve of this?”_

“I have to hide him, and I don't know how else to do it without putting him in danger. Croc wants him by midnight.”

“ _So let 'im have 'im.”_

“Can't. They need Crane—” _Like I do._ “—to finish a toxin for them. They'll break him.”

“ _Just because you've been spying on him all winter doesn't mean he can be trusted. Have you prepared for the worst-case scenario?”_

“I thought so—”

“ _We're going to need to work on that, Master Wayne. Preparing for everything—every situation you can imagine—not just the typical ones.”_

“You're right, but for now, this is what has to be done.”

Alfred's voice showed definite signs of him being irate.  _“Of course, sir.”_

“You'll leave the rat-poison out of it, right?” Bruce joked. He wondered if he should have been more serious.

Alfred was not amused.  _“That's not the sort of justice that Rachel would approve of.”_

“Thanks Alfred.”

“ _Good-bye, Master Wayne.”_

Hanging up, Bruce made a few more turns, and was on Elmwood. He found the perfect spot in front of  _Le Café,_ but to his surprise, the place was clear. Neither Lucy nor Tara could be seen.

“Hello?” Bruce called out once he made it to the register, resting his hands on the counter. He heard the muffled sounds of the girls, and a clanking of dishes. _Did I catch them during a cleaning spree?_

“Bruce?” Lucy shouted. “Hang on.”

_Distress?_ “Tara back there too?”

The girls appeared, Lucy's arm swept around a noticeably shaken Tara. “This is a really bad time,” Lucy said. “But...God, we're so glad to see you.”

“What happened?” Bruce asked. _Were they robbed? Where are the police?_

Lucy curled Tara in. “We were just hanging out, waiting for you or Jonny Newspaper or Mr. and Mrs. Webber to drop by, and Tara was telling me about Pam when—”

Time stopped. “Pam?” Bruce inquired. Alfred's words echoed.

“Her sister,” Lucy said. “Anyway, these three guys rushed in, and were demanding to know about Jonny Newspaper.”

_Oh God no._ “To know what?”

“Where he lived.” Lucy bit her lip, discomfort obvious. “And they hassled Tara, until finally I—I told them.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I'm so sorry! I didn't know what to do...I thought they were really going to hurt her!”

Bruce inspected Tara, and noticed a red mark around her left wrist. _Bastards!_ “Did you call the police?”

“Not yet...” Tara muttered.

Bruce put a hand through his hair. “I'm going to go check on him. Lucy, call the police and tell them what happened. Tell them where the guys were going, and who they were looking for.”

“What kind of trouble is Jon in?” Lucy asked, concerned.

“I don't know,” Bruce lied.

Lucy patted Tara, and moved for a pot of coffee. She poured a cup for him, capped it, then set it on the counter. “On the house. Take it.”

Bruce nodded. “Lipstick?”

Lucy wiped away another tear. “Yeah, exactly.”

* * *

The pain in Jon's cheek pulsed. He understood what motivated criminals to sway people with pain, but he wasn't a fan of their methods when used on him.

“Couldn't you have just taken me already?”

“Nah.” One of the men cracked his knuckles. “You need to know what Croc is gonna do to ya if ya don't cooperate when you get there.”

“Yeah,” a goofier one added. “Just take what we're doing and multiply it by a lot.”

Another punch landed, this time in his stomach. Jon gasped for breath, trying his hardest not to give in and freak out.  _It will only increase my suffering if I hyperventilate._ Amusing himself, he gave them each their own nicknames, hoping that a sprinkle of humour in his mind would act as a distraction from the pain.

The tallest of them, Big Head, paused. “Wait, you guys hear that?”

“Hear what?” said Goof.

Idiot, the one beside Crane that dealt the most damage, hit him again. “I ain't hearin' nothin' but my fist poundin' this skinny-ass jerk.”

“Naw,” Big Head said, creeping to the door. “I mean for real. Thought I heard a door and some footsteps in the hall.”

“Ain't no one else live here, right?” Idiot asked Jon, leaning in. “Right?”

Jon didn't answer. Idiot's punch wasn't hard, but the oaf's ring cut his skin.

Big Head held up a finger. “Hang on,” he whispered.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Looks like you gots a visitor!” Goof giggled.

“ _Jon?”_ the voice said. _“Hey Jon, you in there?”_

_Get out, Bruce,_ thought Jon. He didn't want Croc's gang to use Bruce or his wealth in any way. _Please leave now._ Too late. Big Head opened the door a crack.

“Jonny-boy ain't home right now. He's out getting' snacks for the—ahh!” Big Head stumbled back, one hand clutching his wet, burnt face. The opening inhaled the other hand, then the door slammed against his wrist. An expensive shoe kicked him to the ground. The door closed.

“Aww shit,” Idiot remarked. “Looks like your friend here thinks he can tango with us!” He shoved Jon to the ground, and walked to where Big Head was writhing.

Goof lumbered forward, and as he slowly turned the handle, the door knocked him in the face. Toes stubbed, Goof fell back. Idiot rolled him over with his foot, cursing at the lump for being so stupid, and opened the door. He didn't see much of the man who clocked him. The door closed again. Sirens drew near.

“Who is it?” Goof asked.

“I dunno!” Idiot answered.

“Is it the Bat?”

Big Head rubbed his eyes, unable to pull himself off the floor. “No, it ain't the Bat! Just some guy!”

“Then let's take 'im!” Idiot urged.

But the next time the door opened, they faced the police.

* * *

Bruce lingered in Jon's kitchen, feigning pain in his punching hand as a medic applied ice to his knuckles. He watched Jon over the medic's shoulder, wishing that he could talk to him, but knowing he couldn't just yet. Police cameras flashed, and officers moved in and out. Then Gordon arrived.

An officer briefed him as he entered the apartment. Gordon issued a few orders and met with Crane. “You know the guys that did this?”

“No. I believe we went over this,” Crane said. A medic stepped in and began her examination.

Gordon continued between the medic's questions. “Did they mention who they work for?”

“Croc.” Crane blinked as a light shone in his eyes. “I have to move again.”

“Blame my department all you want, Crane. Right now we're trying to help you, so you could at least cooperate.”

“I am. That's all I know.”

The medic bandaged the cut on his cheek. “Doesn't seem like a concussion,” she said, “but you should get to the hospital to be sure. Sometimes head injuries don't get you 'til the next day.”

“You'll need an escort,” Gordon advised. “The second these guys' boss gets word of this, they'll send someone out to every hospital.”

“I think I'll pass,” Crane said. “On both. I wouldn't doubt that _your men_ didn't already tip him off.”

“Then _I'll_ personally escort you,” Gordon assured him.

“Going out of your way to be nice to me? How righteous of you.”

Bruce approached, rubbing his wrist. It would be fruitless for Gordon and Crane to argue all day. “You okay?” he asked Jon.

“I'm fine,” he answered.

“Mr. Wayne,” Gordon addressed him, “you're a Good Samaritan, I'll give you that.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said.

Gordon continued. “But you might want to think about who you're friends with.”

_This is it, isn't it?_ “What's going on?”

“Gordon—” Jon started.

“Sorry, Crane.” Gordon shook his head. “You want to tell him instead?”

Hearts beating fast, each knowing the big secret that would inevitably tear them apart, they stared at each other, waiting for Jon's resolve to break. Bruce didn't want to have to ask.

But Jon didn't speak.

“What are you involved with, Jon?” Bruce asked.

Jon took a deep breath and winced. A pain shot through his ribs. He wondered why the medic didn't check that. “I have a past—an abandoned past—that has gained the attention of those who wish to exploit it.”

Bruce played dumb, but the Bat made a note at the mention of “abandoned.” _Is he lying out of fear that I'll be offended? Or is he telling the truth?_ The difference was difficult to discern when it came to Jon. “What did you do?”

Crane stayed silent, though he knew that Gordon would reveal it anyway. The longer he could delay the inevitable, the better.

And Gordon acted just as Crane predicted. “I figured you wouldn't recognize him. One his victims tried to press charges, but a court date couldn't be set because he escaped. When he was finally taken into custody, the court date was set back—back a little too far, if you ask me. The victim ended up murdered at the hands of an unrelating lunatic before her day in court. Those who picked up the case in her favor were paid off by the mob, _allegedly_.” Gordon adjusted his glasses. “If this sounds familiar to you, then I wouldn't be surprised. This victim—one of many—was the late Rachel Dawes.”

Bruce knew it and ignored it long enough. The pain he'd been holding back exploded in his chest. His eyes remained locked on Crane's. “Rachel and I grew up together,” he uttered. Facing his friend's attacker this time, in this honest way, felt entirely different than when he fought Crane in Arkham. He wondered if Crane always knew that he and Rachel had been friends.

Jon desperately wanted to explain himself to Bruce—to let him know that things changed—but knew he couldn't give Gordon any sort of edge. If someone in his department was a leak, that leak had to think that Crane was still a cold-hearted bastard. Breaking his gaze with Bruce, he prodded, “Commissioner?”

Gordon nodded. “Mr. Wayne, we'll need a statement. We might ask you to come down to the station for some questioning. Even though you beat 'em up in defense, we need to have it on record.”

“Right,” Bruce nodded. “I'll head down there now.”

* * *

A plate of vegetables settled on the tray in front of Bruce.

“Sometimes I wonder why we have a dining room,” Alfred said. “Ever since you've gotten that thing, you've taken all of your dinners in front of the TV.”

“News is important, Alfred. They use it for information, and I need to be able to think like them.”

Alfred glanced at the screen. “Looks like Uptown. Think this will draw the attention of Mr. Jones to the manor?”

“Let's see.” Bruce turned up the volume on the live report. Summer Gleason, Gotham's top reporter, stood on-scene in front of Crane's apartment. Two squad cars and other reporters stayed behind her.

“ _Trouble on Watson street ended with three arrests. Gotham PD received a call earlier this evening, which brought them to this small apartment building in Uptown. Three men allegedly broke into the only occupied apartment, where they proceeded to attack the occupant._

“ _Uptown is undeniably shocked at the attack. Residents of the Elmwood Strip, where Watson is adjoined to, aren't used to violent crimes. Says one landlord, who wishes to remain anonymous, 'We don't see much action around here. We've seemed to escape the fate that the rest of the Gotham has in our little community, and hoped to keep it that way.'_

“ _On a lighter note, residents were relieved to discover that the attack was stopped by a Good Samaritan. Marion Goodwill, owner of On-the-Go Goods and Convenience, located on the corner of Elmwood and Richmond, had this to say.”_

A pre-recorded clip popped on screen. A middle-aged woman with thick glasses appeared, shelves of canned goods in the background. A name-bar in the corner read: Marion Goodwill.

“ _It's good to know that there are citizens out there looking out for our neighborhood. This community won't stand for anything, and we're hoping that this person's example will be followed by others.”_

The camera switched back to Summer. _“The names of both the victim and the Good Samaritan have been withheld by the Gotham PD for security reasons. The victim received minor injuries. Sources inside the department state that the victim had a criminal record, and that the attack is drug-related. Back to you, Don.”_

“Seems you've conveniently dodged a bullet, sir,” said Alfred.

“Seems so,” agreed Bruce, tuning to the other stations to be sure.

* * *

With the Bat-signal broken and the city still under the assumption that Batman was a criminal, Commissioner Gordon had to find new places to meet with his masked acquaintance. Tonight they were outside of his home, trying to whisper so as to not wake Gordon's family, though Barbara couldn't sleep and eavesdropped on them. She'd always mixed feelings about the Batman; their intensity and duality had been amplified by Harvey Dent's attack.

“I'm sure you've noticed that Crane is cozying up to Bruce Wayne,” Gordon said.

“They're being watched. Harmless so far. Wayne is unaware.”

“Not anymore,” Gordon said. “I mentioned Crane's connection to Dawes. It seemed to jar him.”

_It did. Thanks, Jim._ “Pamela Isley. A botanist with her name on studies of organic chemicals. She's leading around Croc.”

“Isley? Heard that name today. The girl assaulted at the café is named Isley. A sister, maybe?”

_Tara—it_ is _the same Pam._ “She involved?”

“Doubtful. It's possible the sister mentioned Crane to Pamela, but as far as I can tell, none of the employees know Crane's identity.” Gordon shook his head. “But that means we've got a lead.”

_Lucy said that Tara was starting to like Crane. It's possible Pamela discerned his identity from a physical description._ “If Isley falls, so does Croc.”

Gordon nodded. “Exactly.”  



	8. Coffee - Part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part contains direct quotes from _Batman Begins_. These lines were not originally written by me, and are used here to illustrate certain portions of scenes.

Inches of frozen precipitation fell over the night. The bright sun, non-existent clouds, and snow so pure and icy that its glittery glimmer blinded the eye made for a beautiful winter morning. However, all of the night's inclement weather made Batman's job more difficult.

What little sleep he managed to snag between Bat and Bruce left him torn and emotional. He'd found himself in the kitchen of Wayne Manor, wearing a tuxedo with a cowl. Rachel, Jon, and Alfred stood around him, yelling at him and each other for every one of Bruce's mistakes. The distinct sound of a breaking tea-cup upon the floor stopped their conversation. His mother entered, shame and horror on her face, and his father joined her, hands on her shoulders, scolding Bruce for desiring Jonathan and startling his mother so.

“But I've cut ties,” he'd heard himself mumbling as he awoke.

He dressed immediately for work.

The presence of snow lessened considerably as he came upon the city. No longer blinding, the wet slush clung to his tire wells, forming solid stalactites of snow on the undercarriage of his car. He wasn't sure why he drove to Uptown yet again. Out of habit, perhaps, or to check up on Lucy and Tara. As he parked in front of _Le Café_ , he realized that it neither of those reasons applied. He hoped to see Jon.

Gordon made mention of Crane's disappearance after the attack. Once he was released from the hospital, Gordon suggested staying with a friend, out of sight from both the department and Croc. Batman hoped that Crane would have been smart enough to not stay with Jenny, since a link could be made there eventually, but during his surveillance of Jenny's home, he spotted Crane's vigilant eyes peering out through the blinds.

But Jon was not inside the coffee shop. Neither was Tara. Lucy alone managed the counter.

Her face lit up when he stepped inside. “Bruce!”

“Good Morning, Lucy.” Her smile was a welcome sight to him. “Everything okay here?”

Lucy's face changed. “Yet again you don't show your face after something crazy happens? Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?”

“I'm sorry.”

“I didn't tell anyone that you were the mystery Samaritan,” she said. “I didn't tell anyone who the victim was either. I didn't say a damn word! I just stayed here for the past few days, waiting for you to come in! No one's been around lately.”

_No one?_ “Tara? Jon?”

“Tara was told to take a week off. I said I'd cover for her—it's not like I'm not always here anyway—but the place has been a ghost town. Meanwhile, I have no idea what happened to either of you! I didn't know if you two were hurt, or shot, or what!”

Bruce found himself longing for a return to the old routine. No Jon, no Tara, and a crying Lucy made him feel uneasy, almost sick. “Jon is fine. Just a bruise or two.”

“So where is he?”

“I don't know. Hiding, I think.”

Elbows on the counter, face in her hands, she mumbled, “Do you think he'll ever be back?”

“I saw Commissioner Gordon there. It looked like he was working really hard to keep Jon safe.”

Lucy looked up. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

Lucy wiped aside a tear and stood. “Okay.” She patted the counter. “Okay. Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to make you a coffee,” she said, grabbing two cups, “and I'm going to throw in Jonny Newspaper's order too. Every day until he reappears. That way, he'll always have a cup of coffee there to welcome him back.”

Bruce smiled. An honest and endearing plan. It reminded him of why he took up the cowl in the first place; criminals could be redeemed, and citizens could be protected. There was room for forgiveness in the heart of Bruce Wayne. “I'll take two coffees then.”

She laughed as if it'd been forever since she felt joy. “Coming right up.”

* * *

Snow was all the rage in the office today. Everyone shared tales of how the measly few inches affected their lives: whether or not they had to shovel their car out, start their engines twenty minutes early to ensure a warm ride, or lost their gloves. In that respect, though their misery was apparent, the snow united them, and that made them happy. Even his temporary secretary greeted him with a warm smile.

She waited until he'd stepped into office, door half-way shut behind him, to announce his visitor: Mr. Newspaper.

Jon, wool coat and scarf still draped over his shoulders, ankles drenched from the snow, stood far from Bruce's desk, looking out one of those large, scenic windows. He didn't acknowledge Bruce when he came in; he noticed him, but didn't find it proper to be the first to speak.

Bruce set down his things on his desk and leaned upon it, waiting for Jon to say something. When he realized that this would not happen, he asked, “What are you doing here, Jon?”

Jon started carefully, analyzing each word in his mind before he spoke. “Thank you, Bruce.”

_You're welcome._ “Is that all?”

Jon looked at him, noticing the second coffee in the carry-tray on his desk. “No.”

“Hurry up.”

“I've analyzed myself over and over. Before I did what I did, during, and afterward. Even now, I contemplate why it is that I came here. My first thought can't possibly be correct, as I haven't tested it. And yet, though in the past I would have tried to test it—possibly recreate an isolated, extreme incident—I do not know what is stopping me from doing so. Or rather, I am not satisfied with the simplest of answers.”

Bruce remained still, his voice quiet. “What is the simplest of answers, Jon?”

Jon wanted to say, “forgiveness,” but the admission of such felt alien to him. There were moments in his past where he felt normal, times when he wondered if he could calm the dark thoughts that bred in the depths of his mind, but they'd always been erased. He knew he couldn't remain quiet much longer, lest he have to start all over again at the beginning, yet his fear froze him in place, and he said nothing.

“The papers called you a sociopath,” Bruce said.

Jon mustered the strength to break fear's hold on him. “The same is said of you.”

“So why aren't you?”

“I share many traits, yes. But I do not lack emotion. In fact, it was my obsession with emotion—primal emotions—that drove me to do what I do. Something cathartic to make up for the life I lived prior to Arkham.”

“When you attacked Rachel, you felt guilt?” Bruce's contained anger took the form of a maniacal smile, then faded. “You regretted what you did to her? Or did someone have to explain what guilt was to you before you understood?”

“You mean to further accuse me of sociopathy?”

“It's not a mental disability. You had to have consciously known what you were doing.”

Jon crossed his arms. “You certainly know a great deal about the mind, don't you?”

_I'm still learning._ “I know what you did to Rachel and the city. You shouldn't even be here. You tried to destroy everything my parents stood for.”

Now Jon donned the maniacal smile of disbelief. “Is that what you think? Time and time again, I've explained to _everyone_ involved that I wasn't the mastermind. I was but a peon, doing the dirty work of another, tricked into thinking that my studies would be furthered if I cooperated.”

“Why the change? How is anyone to know to know if you're telling the truth or just manipulating them?”

Jon glanced out the window again. “The Bat-man. How traumatizing it was, to be driven mad, foiled, afflicted by it. I thought that my pain was the only one that mattered, that everyone else should see the world as I did, but whatever suffering I had endured in my past was nothing compared to the sheer terror I created and experienced.”

_And then you escaped and started up again._ “Gordon said you fled after the incident in the Narrows. If you were so changed, then why continue?”

“Bruce,” said Jon, biting his lip. He heard the shackles of fear click around him. “I've said enough.”

Bruce shook his head. “Not nearly enough. Why a second run?”

Jon, shaken, tried hard to maintain his composure. He'd never been so willingly honest before. “You're a persistent ass.”

“You attacked Rachel.”

“And I'm apologizing!”

Silence claimed the office then, both men becoming aware of just how hard they were breathing, each wishing that the past never existed. But more surprising to Bruce than Jon's non-violent outburst was the lack of his parent's condemning voices.

“Apologize to Rachel,” Bruce broke in, realizing that perhaps these words were meant for himself rather than Jon.

“I already have,” said Jon.

Bruce let the words process, but it didn't take. Instead, he left Jon alone in the office, grabbed his coat, and went for his car.

* * *

Gotham Cemetery basked in the shade of the clouds that overcame the morning sun. Headstones poked through the almost untouched snow on the cemetery's pristine lawns. Icicles hung from the tips of angel's wings.

As Bruce pulled into the freshly plowed driveway of the grounds, a light snow started falling, its flakes melting the moment they hit his windshield. A caretaker pushing a snowblower nodded at him as he drove by, completely content with the weather's threat to destroy his morning's work.

Bruce took the curved paths of the graveyard carefully, stopping when he found the place where Rachel Dawes took her eternal rest. It'd been a while since he last visited; he mainly went with Alfred whenever the man reminded him, but between the company, the cowl, and now Croc and Crane, he hadn't been back until now.

His impulsive, emotionally-charged decision to visit Rachel blinded him to the sets of footsteps that mirrored his own. As his mind fumbled for the right words to say to her— _will it be my mask speaking?—_ that the footprints, along with a fresh bouquet of flowers, became noticeable.

A man's footprints. Crane's pants, wet at the hems. Crane standing by the windows.

“ _Apologize to Rachel.”_

“ _I already have.”_

“Do you think that the criminals here can change?” Bruce asked the space where Rachel lay. “Isn't that why you prosecuted them? To see them pay their penance and change?”

Petals fell from the bouquet as the wind blew.

“You always knew better than I did. You did what was right. I'm doing what is necessary. It's not always the same thing. I miss you. I wish I had your courage, Rachel.”

Bruce waited for a sign of her presence. The flurry continued.

“You said that this was my mask. Jon...he's part of my world. Do you believe he's on our side now? Am I doing you a great dishonor by—”

Bruce squinted as a sudden reflection of sunlight pierced his eyes. The flurry passed.

He had his answer.

* * *

The resemblance between Pamela and Tara was striking, even in the dim light of the cold alley. The voluptuous redhead, bundled up in a parka, huffed impatient breaths of hot vapor out while she tapped her foot in the slush. Two men stood beside her.

“I've had enough of this,” she said. Turning to a dazed man at her side, she demanded, “Marvin, take me back to the greenhouse. This cold is unbearable.”

“Yes, Miss Ivy,” the man stated, flat.

_There's something wrong with this picture_ , Batman thought. He maintained his stealth as he followed Isley to a waiting electric car.

Pamela shivered as the second man opened up the door for her. “Georgie, darling. Make sure that Croc gets the doctor soon. You'll do that for me, won't you?”

“Anything for you, Miss Ivy.”

“Perfect. Go now.”

She stepped into the car, allowing Georgie to shut the door for her, and the vehicle sped off, leaving Georgie behind. Batman had to make a choice.

He followed Isley.

* * *

The entrance to  _Le Café_ had a “Now Hiring” sign taped to it. It hadn't been there the day before.

Lucy, sleep tugging the skin beneath her eyes, smiled when Bruce approached the counter. She started up Jon's signature drink. “Evening,” she said with a yawn.

“Everything okay?” Bruce looked behind him at the sign. “Did Tara...”

“Quit? No. Maybe?” She stirred the coffee robotically. “I talked to her last night on the phone, and she was supposed to come in, but she never showed. She sounded fine when we talked, and happy to come back and see you and Jonny again.”

_Something happened._ “But your boss fired her?”

“No no no. He'd never fire Tara. He just thinks we need a break. It's a small business, you know? And when Tara and I aren't working, him and his wife manage the counter.”

“You two are always working.”

“Yeah, whenever _you_ come in.” She yawned again, handing Bruce two drinks in a carry tray. “Money please.”

Bruce handed her some cash, which surprised her. “I need a third one too, with cream and sugar on the side. Did you talk to Tara today?”

“Nope. She's not answering. I'm freaking out a little bit.” Another yawn. “I know it doesn't show.”

Bruce reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Call me when you hear from her.”

“What, and go through your secretary or assistant or whatever? Bite me.”

“Check the back,” Bruce told her. “That's my direct extension and personal cell.”

Lucy blushed as she examined the handwriting on the back of the card. “Oh. What if I, uh, lose it? And then some stalker is calling you?”

He smiled. “Don't worry about it. Tara's safety is more important.”

She tapped the card on the counter and put it in her pocket. “Right. Okay. Well, see you whenever. Oh, and...if you're not paying that Jenny enough, can you tell her we're hiring? She was totally cool and already knows about customer service.”

“Pretty sneaky,” Bruce replied.

“I know,” Lucy grinned.

* * *

An expensive vehicle pulled up to Jenny's place. Triple-checking that he wasn't followed, Bruce undid his seatbelt and got out of the car, carry-tray of coffee in his hand. Once he got to the door, it took a few knocks and a ring of the door-bell to get anyone to answer.

Predictably, Jenny greeted him.

“Mr. Wayne? What are you doing here?”

“I'd be lying if I said I was here to visit you.”

She licked her lips, tense. “You weren't...you know.”

“I made sure as best as I could.”

“I mean, no offense, but would you know it if you were?”

“None taken. I'm sure of it.”

She nodded, opening the door just enough for him to enter. “Right. He said you were smarter than they said. Come in.”

Jenny's place starkly contrasted Crane's. Pastel walls enclosed the mishmash of antiques, floral décor, and modern items. Pictures of Jenny and an older woman hung from the walls and rested on table tops. It smelled of potpourri and homemade soup. A true home.

“Beautiful place, Jenny,” Bruce said. He meant it. Wayne Manor's destruction still haunted him. “Do you like coffee? I brought one for you.”

“Thanks, Mr. Wayne.” She accepted the gift he handed her. “And thanks for the compliment. My grandmother used to live with me here.”

“You two look really happy.”

“We were.” She took a nervous sip. “It's...are you sure you want to visit _him_?”

_Why would your grandmother make you think of Crane?_ “Is there something wrong?”

“It's just...God, I can't believe I'm about to tell you this.”

“You don't have to tell me anything,” Bruce said, contrary to his thoughts.

The woman lowered her voice. “What he did was awful. Unforgivable. But...I've seen real pieces of him before. This whole arrangement is really complicated.”

“Him staying with you?”

“Me not killing him. You know how I got the job at that hotel? I interviewed the week before everything happened. My girlfriends and I planned to go out and celebrate when I got the call that I'd been hired. I asked Jon if he wanted to go, but he'd been really distant. He said to take Nana out to dinner somewhere Uptown, and just leave him alone, but I didn't listen. And then...”

Bruce felt that there were missing pieces of Jenny's story. “Are you sure you want to tell me this?”

“It was messed up. I heard he got arrested, and my celebration turned into this pity party. I got so drunk I could barely register the news of what was happening in the Narrows, until I got a call that Nana's house had been broken into by a few psychos. They broke her arm and trashed our place. I ended up saving up to move us out here. She...passed last year. Not from that, but...still. What he did? How many grandmothers had their arms broken, or worse? How many people suffered from that?”

“But you've maintained your friendship.”

“It's complicated. I love him, you know? We both went to college for the same thing, but I had to drop out to take care of Nana. I can see how messed up he is. I get that what he does is sometimes out of his control. Just be careful, okay? He's better now than he's ever been, but...it doesn't mean he's cured. He's forever going to be the way he is.”

_She can't abandon him out of good conscience. She feels like he's her patient. She should finish up that degree._ “I'll keep that in mind.”

Jenny wiped away a tear and said, “Right. He's upstairs, holed up in the spare room. I think. I've caught him sneaking out a few times. He thinks he's invincible. He's probably going to get us all killed.”

“You think so?”

“Well...no. To be honest, I think I saw—“ The woman paused, letting out a laugh. “Never mind. Thanks for the coffee.” She nodded at the stair case. “I'll just blare some music down here, or something.”

Bruce felt flush. “Blare some music?”

Jenny's somber behavior faded. “I'm not an idiot, Mr. Wayne.”

“We're not—“

“Yeah right.”

* * *

The door to the spare room was ajar when Bruce made it upstairs.

“About time,” Jon said as Bruce stepped inside.

“You were expecting me?”

Jon glanced at the gift in Bruce's hands. “You brought me coffee. Again.”

“It was Lucy's idea. Both times.”

“Of course it was.”

“I saw the flowers.”

“The nerve of me,” Jon said, sitting down on the twin-sized bed. “And I suppose Jenny's told you about her grandmother too.”

“You were listening.”

Jon shot Bruce a look. “I'm brilliant. And she's far too caring of a person not to warn you. Yet stupidly, you still came here. Just as you did the other times.”

“Stupidly?” Bruce set the drinks upon the nightstand. He wanted to sit beside Jon, but hesitated. He'd suddenly forgotten his reasons for visiting.

“It can't be because you genuinely believe I'm a decent person.”

Bruce sensed the tinge of self-loathing in Jon's remark. “I did.”

“And now?”

“Maybe my brain is misfiring.”

“Obviously.”

Bruce broke the quiet that came over the room as he sat beside Jon, hoping that his weight wouldn't awkwardly topple the other man over on him. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

“I'm not entirely certain. Did Gordon put you up to this?”

“Commissioner Gordon? No.”

“I feel like you're lying. Someone must want to know.”

“I want to know. We we're supposed to have dinner and you were attacked.”

“They want my expertise. It's obvious, run-of-the-mill stuff, Bruce.” His guard down, Jon slouched, letting his chin rest in his hand. “I suppose it's good that you don't understand. It means that despite your outwardly reckless ways, you are still an honest businessman.”

“A compliment.”

“You need me to clarify everything I say? I do that enough, don't I?”

Jon's behavior disarmed Bruce. _Why am I here? To reconcile or pursue him?_ Being beside Jon brought him further doubt. “You don't need to clarify.”

Jon turned away. “Do you know what it's like to live with a terror, Bruce? It's far from pleasant. In my field, professionals say that one must face their demons in order to overcome them. Is it possible to do this?”

“I don't know.”

Jon's stature displaced, the dam on his tongue broke; whether or not it was a vain attempt to fill in the blanks for Bruce and keep him by his side, or the result of having a personal confessional set-up in the bedroom, he couldn't determine. “Do you know the difference between Arkham and regular jail?”

Bruce nodded and listened.

“Arkham is where they send you when you're mad. Decent people worked there. They believed that these criminals could be cured. The common belief now is that Arkham is full of murderous madmen—that there's one Joker for every orderly—but that's not true. There were patients with legitimate mental disabilities, and patients who endured great traumas. Their crimes were small, mostly victimless, but they were deemed as a danger to themselves and others. Those were the first ones I hurt.”

Bruce hid his disgust. “You hurt them?”

“They weren't among the men I recruited or...” Jon paused; he wanted to say “tested,” but the word sounded clinical to him. “But when my supervisor, shall we say, enacted his grand plan using my chemical cocktail, they were the first ones in the fray. And then the people of the Narrows, and those along the water main his little train traveled along, Jenny's grandmother. I—have you any idea what it feels like to be responsible for harming so many?”

_I do._ “Gordon said you escaped afterward,” Bruce said, handing Jon his drink. He figured it might be of some comfort to him.

“I did, but...it wasn't the same.”

_You sold fear-inducing drugs._ “How?”

Jon said nothing for a long moment.. “Something felt off.” His voice quieted, and his tone lacked ego. “I was capable of destroying the Narrows—I could do anything. But I couldn't.  _He_ kept stopping me.

“I was thrown back into Arkham. I knew the team assigned to me. They were among the few left that cared. They stared into the eyes of this monster and saw the man I thought I was only pretending to be. There was a nurse I used to work with—Kayla—and she was my only light to the outside world. In a hospital like that, they don't allow you to watch the news. It could trigger an episode. If you're caught, your privileges are taken away. But she told me about him, and the Joker.

“I was fascinated by his character. His plan was grand; even though he wasn't studying fear the way that I previously hoped to, his experiment was similarly wicked. How would the citizens of Gotham react to the fear of death? They didn't react as anticipated. They stood tall and faced their fear, choosing dignity and good over instinct. Kayla finished the story by telling me rumors of the man who first threw the trigger overboard: a hardened criminal.” Jon sighed and turned away, glancing beyond the shades that covered the single window, out at a world he knew all too well existed. “I am....just a coward, Bruce.”

“But you aren't anymore.”

“I am. All I've done since I've been released is hide and do crossword puzzles.” Jon laughed a nerve-racked laugh. “I haven't made up for what I've done. Even when I try, the sins are insurmountable.”

“ _And why do we fall Bruce? So we can learn to pick ourselves up.”_

_That voice...another hallucination? A memory._ “Jon,” Bruce said, touching the other man's shoulder. Comforting another in this way felt foreign. His comfort came through justice, vengeance. The ever-present memories of his father guided him through the process. “Jon, you're trying.”

Jon responded to Bruce's effort. “Why am I telling you all of this?”

“I don't know. Maybe you're tired of hiding.”

“So I tell you? Bruce Wayne? Billionaire extraordinaire?”

“You still think I'm that boring billionaire you met at the coffee shop?”

“No.” Jon sighed. “How did you do it, Bruce?”

“Do what?”

“You and I...damned if those grandmasters of psychology weren't right. My life was...ripped from me when I was young. Deluded people with selfish ambitions. Their level of cruelty was, and still is, unbelievable. I wanted to kill them for what they'd done to me.”

“ _All creatures feel fear.”_

“ _Even the scary ones.”_

“ _Especially the scary ones.”_

_Another memory._ “Did you?” Bruce uttered, wondering how he'd gotten so close to Jon's ear.

“Kill them? I...wanted to.”

Bruce recalled the night of Joe Chill's release.

“In another life I just might have,” Jon said. “Sometimes I wonder if I would have been released from this if I had, or if I would be just as mad.”

_I wonder the same thing._ “What do you think the answer is?”

“I think...that sometimes a handful of lives would be preferable to prevent the many lost that night.”

“You didn't kill them yourself.”

“Directly, indirectly, it makes no difference at the base of the matter. I've become a part of the same machine that destroyed me. Now it wants me back.”

“You don't have to go back.”

“I won't, not willingly.” Jon leaned back, losing his forward slouch by taking comfort in Bruce's arms. They just...ended up that way. “At some point they will grow impatient. Whatever this person wants from me, they want it now. If I don't give up, they may enact a more sinister plan.”

“Are you worried?”

“The police don't inspire confidence. I know they have my formula buried in their archives somewhere, and I know that this formula was leaked. Not perfected, but leaked, and then used. It can only be yet another officer on a criminal's payroll.”

“Who knows you're here?”

“Commissioner Gordon. You. Jenny.”

“And anyone who saw you at the office, or the cemetery.”

Jon exhaled delicately. Bruce's arms completely surrounded him now, and Jon didn't want him to think the embrace suffocated him. It had the opposite effect. “If I stay here one-hundred percent of the time, then Jenny is in danger that same amount. At least if they pick me up off the street she won't be in the way....that's not to say that I haven't considered your safety. I think you've shown that you can handle yourself, though.”

“Jon?”

“Yes?”

“That's the smartest stupid plan I've ever heard.”

“I thought you might relate to that.”

“Back to normal, I see,” Bruce smiled.

“I'm still working on what's normal.”

“I've gathered.”

“You haven't gone back to your car,” Jon noted.

“I haven't.”

“Perhaps you're the stupid one.”

“Maybe.”

Jon turned around and trailed gentle fingertips over the curves of Bruce's face. “Bruce?”

“Jon?”

“I've told you a lot tonight.”

Bruce took the coffee from Jon's hands and set it aside. “You have.”

“Thank you,” Jon said, hand splayed upon Bruce's chest, “for not making me feel like a fool.”

Bruce smiled again, letting his lips draw closer to Jon's, savoring every last moment of anticipation until they finally kissed. Tongues flicked in and out and over their mouths, their connection much deeper than it was that morning in Jon's apartment.

And then, it turned into something more. Something necessary. Buttons unbuttoned, belt-loops emptied, and undershirts lay discarded on the floor.

Bruce's uncertainty over visiting melted. He knew why he'd come.


	9. Coffee - Part 9

Warm. Comfortable. Out-of-the-ordinary. Dark. _Nighttime?_

“You can let go of me now.”

Bruce loosened his grip on Jon's bare abdomen. “What time is it?”

“9:30,” Jon answered with a slight stretch, turning over to face him. “We fell asleep.”

_I have to leave._ “It seems we did.”

“Which is unusual. You are either terribly sleep-deprived, or your subconscious is not the least bit afraid of me. You shouldn't be so comfortable.”

Bruce smiled at the man's brilliant deduction. _It's a combination of both._ “Are _you_ comfortable?”

Jon returned that smile, pressing their forms together. “Quite.”

Comforting as it was to feel the whole of Jon against him, Bruce's internal clock kept him antsy. He kissed Jon. “Good.”

“You're anxious to leave.”

“Doesn't that contradict what you just said?”

“No. It's perfectly reasonable to assume that you'd have early appointments. Tell me you didn't bring one of your fancy sports cars. I hope that you'd eventually realize that driving them in winter isn't the brightest of ideas.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“You were trying to impress me, weren't you? Or is this all part of that stupid playboy gag you've been playing on the city?”

“Some days are nicer than others.”

“Won't the road salt destroy your precious collection?”

_Maybe he's right._ “It was all for you.”

“Part me thinks you're lying.” Jon dug his fingers lightly into Bruce's skin.. “A shame really. It certainly feels like we're both _recharged_. Yet you want to leave. Your toes are twitching.”

“I'm sorry,” Bruce said. “I wish I could stay.”

Feeling tactile, Jon twisted some of Bruce's hair in his fingertips. “Napping I think removes any insult I would take to that.” He groomed the misplaced hairs away. “We should keep this secret. For your sake.”

“Worried about my image? Like you said, I can handle myself.”

Jon lifted himself from the bed, then passed Bruce his shirt. “Believe it or not, my boring billionaire, your image concerns me less than your life does.”

Bruce took a moment to stare at Jon's naked body. To think that another man turned him on was still strange. “I believe it.”  _And I'm not sure why._

Jon covered himself; Bruce stared too long, and it wasn't fair. “Don't visit again.”

“I won't,” said Bruce, buttoning himself.

“You will.”

“You don't want me to.”

“I do.” Jon dressed. “How's Tara?”

_I'm not sure._ “She didn't show for work today.”

Jon's brows dipped in concern. “Is she alright?”

_Still not sure._ Bruce had to get in the Batsuit  _now_ . “She took some time off after everything happened. Maybe she just needed another day,” Bruce lied.

Jon nodded, reluctant with his response. “Right.”

Last article of clothing on, Bruce leaned over and gave Jon a kiss. “I'll see you. I'm sorry.”

“Good night.”

* * *

It didn't take long for Batman to find out where Tara Isley lived, nor did it take long for him to sneak inside her apartment.

A clean living room, save for two teacups on a table. _A guest? Pamela._ No signs of a struggle. Batman moved along the other rooms, still finding nothing.

Once in the bedroom, he spotted Tara, softly snoring. He crept to her bedside, careful not to make a sound, and checked her. _She's definitely breathing. No visible cuts or bruises. Was she sick? Why didn't she call in?_

Sick. That could explain the tea. Perhaps Pamela withheld her criminality when it came to her own sister. No harm in taking a sample of the dried leaves stuck to the bottoms of the cups.

Plus, it was good to see Tara alive. Batman feared far worse.

* * *

Bruce's cell rang at 7:13 in the morning. Even Alfred hadn't tread down that frightening early-bird path this past week.

_Lucy._

Bruce rolled over and grabbed the phone, remembering why he'd left it beside his bed. “Wayne.”

“ _It's Lucy. She's in today.”_

Bruce smiled. “That's great. She okay?”

“ _Uh, I guess she wasn't feeling well the night before. She said her sister came over, and then something about food poisoning and sleeping through her shift...I guess she called in after I left and apologized.”_

Food poisoning sounded both plausible and suspicious. “Well, as long as she's her same old chipper self...”

“ _Chipper? Who uses that word anymore? Anyway, that doesn't even begin to describe her.”_

Bruce sat up. “What do you mean?”

“ _She's just acting weird. Like....hippy-weird.”_

“Isn't that your target customer?”

“ _Yes, but Tara was relatively normal before. Can you just come down here please?”_

_Damn_ . Bruce hoped to get another hour of sleep. If it hadn't been for that nap at Jon's, he'd be in real trouble. “Yeah. See you soon.”

“ _Great. Bye.”_

Bruce hung up the phone and stood. Bright sunlight peeked from beneath the curtains.  _Ah, what the hell?_ Bruce figured, drawing them. That's when he noticed something on the back of his hand.

A small blister, somewhat hard to the touch, right at the base of his thumb. No pain, but certainly infected.  _Maybe just a normal blister. Something stuck inside my glove._ He'd have Lucius look at it later, but for now, he'd just wrap it up and head out. Lucy waited for him.

* * *

Tara greeted Bruce on the curb. A nice day for sure, but Tara never slacked on the job. Also, while the sun warmed the city today, the wind did not, and Tara didn't wear a jacket. _I hope she just misses me._

Bruce stepped out of his car. “Good morning, Tara!”

“Mr. Wayne! Good morning!” She looked at the sky. “Isn't it a beautiful day outside?”

“It is,” he agreed. “Bit chilly. No coat?”

She smiled, putting her hands behind her back. “Nope! I just feel like I need to be out in the sun. Enjoy life, I think. Don't you?”

“Life's too short.”

“That's what I've been saying!” she exclaimed. “I mean, one day you could just get attacked by anyone, and it's all gone! So why not enjoy the nice things instead of just assuming that they'll come along some day?”

_Good advice._ “It's good to see you back.” He opened the door to the café. “You should come in soon though. At least get a scarf.”

Tara laughed. “Don't worry!”

_Not sure what that means_ , Bruce thought as he stepped inside.

Lucy threw her hands into the air when he got to the counter. “See what I mean?”

“She just went through a trauma,” he rationalized. “Just make sure she doesn't get frostbite.”

Lucy made his coffee—and Jon's. “I mean, jeez. You'd think she was a plant or something.”

Bruce's head shot up. “What?”

“You know,” she said, “a plant? They need sun? Ha ha, funny?”

He nodded. “Oh yeah. Sorry. Didn't get a lot of sleep.”

Defensive, Lucy said, “Don't blame me.”

“I'd never.”

“Good.” She passed over his order. “All set. Money please.”

* * *

Archives: Bruce's favorite little hiding spot. He couldn't have asked for a better place with a better man.

“One of these days you're going to have to bring me a coffee,” Lucius said, unwrapping Bruce's hand.

“There's an extra one,” Bruce offered.

Lucius shot him a look. “That one's not for me.” He inspected Bruce's hand. “Does it hurt?”

Bruce shook his head. “Nope. Can we run a test on it?”

“You want me to do a biopsy? On a blister?”

“What if it's not a blister?”

Lucius' stern eyes could start a fire. “If you've just unwillingly exposed me to a plague...”

Bruce stopped him. “I really don't think it's a plague.”

Lucius donned latex gloves. “Good, because I've done a lot for you. I'm not about to die from the Bubonic Plague. Or leprosy.”

Bruce laughed. “Come on, Lucius. You don't think I can afford to send you to a good leper colony?”

Lucius set Bruce's hand down. “Don't get smart with me, Bruce.” He stood. “Come on. Let's go get that _thing_ tested.”

* * *

Once Lucius finished the biopsy, Bruce headed back to his office. Laura had been filling her time with solitaire.

“Any calls?” he asked.

“Oh, thought you were in there,” she answered. “There's someone on the line for you.”

_Great. A mystery person._ “Who and for how long?”

“That muffin guy, I think. Sounded like him.”

Bruce leaned over her desk and checked her phone. Only three minutes had passed since the call originated. “Got it. Thanks.”

“Oh, no problem, Mr. Wayne!” She thought she did pretty good herself.

Bruce shrugged off his disappointment as he entered his office, excited to talk to Jon. However, the fact that Jon called him gave him great concern.

He sat down at his desk and answered quick. “This is Wayne.”

“ _She's dreadful, you know.”_

“Tell me about it,” Bruce said. “You shouldn't be calling.”

“ _I wanted to know if you saw Tara.”_

Bruce leaned back in his chair. “I did. She's fine. Is that why you called?”

“ _That's it. Wouldn't want you to think I was needy.”_

Bruce played with his tie. “You should be careful.”

“ _You should visit soon.”_

“You told me not to.”

“ _A mere disclaimer. You think it better for me to visit you?”_

“Here?”

“ _Why not?”_

“Not yet.”

“ _You realize you have no choice in the matter.”_

“But I can try to persuade you.”

“ _Yes, you can.”_

“Is it working?”

“ _There are better ways to persuade me.”_

Bruce leaned forward, smirk plastered on his face. “Such as...?”

“ _It's not really appropriate talk for an office.”_

_I've been wasting time flirting with Jon on the phone._ “I see. Just be careful. My secretary already knows your voice.”

“ _Do you not trust her?”_

Bruce hadn't entertained the thought when it came to Crane. “Now that you mention it...”

“ _She isn't the best. Probably doesn't have a clue. See you.”_

“Bye.”

Bruce ran a hand through his hair. Time to call Laura's temp agency.

* * *

Killer Croc: a mass of a man. Batman watched him from the rooftop of the short apartment building. He'd caught sight of Croc's van during his rounds, and decided to give chase. He couldn't tell where the van had originated, but it seemed to be driving to no specific destination for several blocks, as if subtly trying to lose a tail. Finally, they'd picked their point, and stopped here. It served as a regular meeting point for crooks of all kinds; Batman busted a pimp here just last week.

Two of Croc's thugs stood guard as he wrapped his hands in bandages, as if preparing to step into the ring. The group seemed to be waiting for something, but Batman couldn't figure out what that something was. A drop-off? Pay-out? A meeting with Isley? Whatever it was, it tested Croc's patience. The crook kept glancing at his watch for the past half-hour.

_Can't strike yet_ , Batman thought.  _Can't get pictures that Gordon could use if I don't know what it is._ For all he knew, Croc was meeting some mob boss and his cronies, and their weapons could be loaded with armor-piercing rounds. Batman knew he'd been far too reckless lately, and it had to change.

A familiar vehicle pulled up: Isley's electric. Marvin stepped out first, then Georgie, briefcase in hand. They escorted her out of the car like a celebrity, their faces blank, as if they'd been brainwashed. The three walked toward the impatient Croc and crew, stopping two yards before them. Batman snapped some pictures.

“Poison Ivy. You're late,” Croc said.

“Oh, I figured that since you have no concept of deadlines that I could take a few extra moments and water my plants,” she said. “After all, you've been late yourself with Dr. Crane.”

“What can I say, the man has friends in high places.”

“Oh? Because he was supposedly spotted at a gala?”

“Hey, that was your botched job, not mine,” Croc said. “And we've got proof.” He nodded to the thug on his right. “Ice.”

Ice produced an envelope from his jacket and handed it to Ivy, who opened it with caution. Inside, she found pictures, along with their negatives.

“Oh my,” she smiled. “Real film. Not in with the digital age, Croc?” She looked at the first picture. “Bruce Wayne? Never would've thought the man would be a criminal.”

Batman sneered. He thought he'd been careful with Jon. Without seeing those pictures, he had no way of knowing who took them, where they were taken, and how much they told about their relationship. An attack plan unfolded in his mind.

Isley leafed through the remaining pictures. “I wonder what a man would pay to keep this from the press?”

Batman held back a growl.  _They're incriminating. Damn it!_

Isley shrugged. “No matter. Money's not what I want.” She passed the photos to Marvin and pulled her coat snug around her. “If that's something you're into, Crocie, I won't stop you. Now where's my present?”

“Where's mine?” Croc asked.

Batman took more photos. If anyone was going to be intimidated by pictures, it would be the crooks.

Isley snapped her fingers. Georgie held out the case. “It's all there. You're lucky I was feeling nice. You almost lost a grand after your idiots attacked my sister.”

_Her sister's only worth a grand to her?_ Batman thought.  _At least Tara kept her word; she didn't tell anyone I'd been at the café, not even her own sister._

Croc sent Ice out to check it. Stacks of cash filled the insides, and per Ice's review, they were real.

“Satisfied?” she asked.

Croc nodded, and his two men retreated to the van and opened the rear doors. Batman knew what was coming.

Jonathan Crane, hands tied with duct-tape over his mouth. Batman's blood boiled; the joys of being a vigilante. Attacking now could get Jonathan hurt.

The crooks walked Crane—who fought the entire way—to Isley. She inspected him, then patted him on the cheek in an overly sensual manner.

“My dear, you really should have just come willingly.”

Crane shot her a scornful look and kicked her in the shin. She stepped back in pain, anger in her eyes. Georgie offered himself as a crutch as Marvin stood ahead of her, defensive.

“You little bastard,” she seethed. “Marvin! Show him the photos!”

Marvin did so. Jon's eyes went wide.

“You don't want anything to happen to Bruce Wayne, do you?” she taunted. “I mean, look at the two of you! Chatting away. Best friends? Or is it more than that?” Pain subsiding, she stood her ground. “I wonder, how close are you two? How much—or how little—would he pay to keep you safe? Or is his reputation more important?” She laughed. “Oh well, guess you'll never know. You'll have to ask Croc how that works out when you're done with my little project.”

“You done?” Croc asked.

“Oh yes, my darling. We're done here.” Isley waved her hand. “Make the trade, boys.”

And they did, which left both Ivy and Croc unguarded as their thugs lugged away their goods to their waiting vehicles. Batman tackled Croc to the ground.

“It's the Bat!” Ice shouted. He tossed the suitcase into the van and drew his gun.

“Damn it,” Isley said. “Get him in there!”

Croc walloped Batman in the shoulder, knocking him away. Standing, he kicked Batman to the ground, leaving the vigilante on his stomach.

Smoke erupted on the scene. Batman rolled away, and leapt to Marvin, who held Crane like a body-shield. The thug went down easy. Batman grabbed Crane around the waist and hoisted him over his shoulder, just as Georgie caught sight of them.

Smoke clearing, Batman had to disappear fast, or at least get Crane to safety. He opted for the latter, and scaled the building. Georgie just barely missed his heels.

Once at the top, Batman ripped the tape from Crane's mouth, and instructed, “Stay here,” before leaping down into the fray again.

Crane barely had time to react in pain. Instead, he tried as best as he could to get a view of the action, since his hands were literally behind his back and he was forced to wait on Batman to help him.

Down below, Ice shot at Batman, and missed. Croc roared and swung hard, hitting who he thought was Batman, but instead turned out to be Marvin.

“Marvin!” Isley shrieked. “Georgie! Go get him!”

“Yes ma'am,” he replied. He dragged Marvin away.

“Boss!” Ice shouted, closing one of the van's doors. “Boss! Come on! We still got the cash!”

Croc smiled wickedly and lunged for Batman again. “Get it started, boys!” The van revved to life.

_Not this time_ , Batman vowed. He dodged Croc's attack and rolled, throwing a Batarang. It cut deep into Croc's arm.

“You bat-bastard!” he shouted. He lumbered after Batman, who'd given himself a bit of distance.

Police sirens sounded off in the distance.

Ice shot and missed again. “Boss! Come on!”

But Croc couldn't go just yet. He'd lost sight of Batman. “I ain't leavin' until this rat is taken care of!”

“We'll pull the van up!” Ice smacked the side and yelled at his cohort. “Come on! Get this thing turned around!”

The van stayed still.

Ice pounded again. “What the hell are ya waitin' for!” he shouted. “Get this damn thing movin'!”

The van didn't budge.

Ice went around to the driver's side. The man was missing.

“Looking for him?” a voice said from the shadows.

Ice's eyes lowered; he saw his hand-cuffed comrade for a second before Batman jumped him, doing the same. A pretty package for the approaching cops.

Croc pounded behind him. “You'll pay for this!” he shouted. He kicked Batman behind the knees, sending him instantly to the ground. He wasn't through with him yet. He picked Batman up at the waist and sent him sailing through the air. Batman's back hit a gutter so hard that it flattened, ultimately breaking the pipe at its nearest joint. Croc, having little compassion for men who failed him, reached for the driver's-side door and attempted to make the getaway himself.

His van stopped abruptly when a cop car blocked him, then another.

Batman, searing pain in his back, spotted the envelope of pictures next to a nearby puddle.  _Marvin must've dropped them._ He grabbed them quick, then made his way back toward Crane, who watched as the cops rounded up the three criminals below.

Batman collapsed on the rooftop beside Jon, the pictures loosening from his grip as he allowed the pain its due course.

“So you do feel pain,” Jon said. “Feel free to untie me whenever you're finished.”

Batman said nothing as he stood, taking the pictures up with him. “Gordon said you were at a safehouse.”

“And I left.”

“Stay there.”

Jon scowled. “I had to check on a friend. You're aware of that concept, right? You strike me as such a  _lonely_ man...” He wriggled. “Untie me anytime this year, Bat.”

_Don't let him get too close. He knows your body now._ Batman moved behind Jon and untied him.

Jon massaged the bruises on his wrists. “I'll thank you if you give me those pictures.”

Batman stepped back. “What are they?”

Jon snapped at him. “None of your business.”

Batman opened the envelope. Jon made a move toward him, but with one quick look—and it had to be quick—Batman intimidated him enough to make him rethink the action.

Indeed the pictures and negatives portrayed Bruce Wayne and Jonathan Crane. All taken from outside  _Le Café,_ except for one picture of Crane hopping off a bus near Wayne Tower. Only enough to make a connection between the two men, nothing more.

Batman handed the photos off to Jon, being careful not to meet his eyes—they'd been  _so_ close the night before. “What's Wayne's involvement?”

“I said 'none of your business' for a reason.”

Just then, both of them heard Commissioner Gordon issue an order.

“Find a way down,” Batman stated, disappearing into the night.

“Bastard,” Jon muttered.


	10. Coffee - Part 10

Bruce stepped out of the elevator and immediately noticed the sticky-note on his door.

_Be back later. RX appt. :) -Laura_

Taking the note, Bruce shook his head, and stepped inside. Predictably (and against Batman's orders), Jon was there.

“You should start locking your office,” Jon suggested.

Bruce got close and put his hands on Jon's waist.  _People might suspect something if I act paranoid._ “Maybe I should.”

“What happened to your hand?”

“Minor burn. Spilled some coffee.”

“You should hire someone to test the temperature for you.” Jon smiled. “You know, these windows are quite big.”

Their noses touched. “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing yet. I have something to show you.” Jon pointed to a small paper bag on the desk.

_The pictures._ Bruce walked over and took a look inside. To his surprise (earning a bemused smirk from Jon), the bag held not only the envelope of pictures and negatives, but a three-pack of condoms and a bottle of lubrication.

“You're blushing. Open the envelope first.”

Bruce did so, though he didn't have to. “Where did you get these?”

“It doesn't matter. The point is that I have them now.” Jon joined him. “No one's hassled you, have they?”

“No.” Bruce touched Jon's face. “Did you get into trouble?”

“I'm already embroiled in trouble,” Jon replied. “The police took care of the offender. I'm fine.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“I don't, but you should be. Hence the other items. I promise I won't be back for a while.”

Bruce nodded, concern on his face. He didn't have to do it for show, he just didn't have to hide it now that the cowl was off. “Thank you.”

Jon grabbed his hand. “Keep them. I don't know how long this will take.”

_I'm trying as hard as I can._ “You said the police got them, right? Or most of them?”

“They're not very good at their job. There are men who are much better, even if they are vile.”

“You mean—”

“I do. So...” Jon tugged on Bruce's tie, loosening the knot. “If you want to find a new place to...play, we can. You can still visit. Or...”

“Or?”

Jon stared at him. “Or this can be it.”

_It should be, but I can't do it._ “Is that what you want?”

“No, but they'll hurt you to get to me. They said so.”

Bruce tried to lighten the situation, even though he knew Jon was right. “They can't do that from jail.”

“They can.” Jon pulled the tie lower. “Automatic blinds?”

Bruce pressed a button on his desk. A track along the windows moved the blinds into place. “Better?”

“Much.”

They kissed, undoing each other's ties. Bruce pressed Jon against his desk, and Jon responded, blindly moving things aside to make things more comfortable in the future.

“You'd think,” Jon whispered as Bruce unclasped his belt, “that you wouldn't be such a pro at this on your second time.”

Bruce pulled Jon's belt free and moved to the button beneath. “The mechanics are easy. It's the charming part that's hard.”

Jon laughed. “And who said you were charming?”

Bruce undid Jon's zipper with a bit of flair and purposeful pressure. “You did.”

Jon clasped Bruce's back and ground against him. “What's that they say?”

Bruce held back a pained wince; Jon hit the massive bruise from the gutter. “About the second time?”

“Mm hmm,” Jon moaned against his lips. “Something about intensity, kink, freakish things.”

“An office desk fulfills that?”

“It could.” Jon sucked on Bruce's lip. “Someone could walk in on us at any time.”

“Good thing Laura's out.”

“Yes, but you didn't lock the door.”

_Shit._ “Let's fix that.” Bruce straightened himself as best as he could as he walked to the door, and as he reached to lock it, he heard a knock.

“Of course,” said Jon, disappointed. He zipped up and sat in a chair.

Bruce opened the door a sliver. “Lucius.”

“Mr. Wayne, got a minute?” His eyes wandered beyond Bruce, hoping to get inside.

“Uh...” Bruce looked back. _Damn it. The ties are on the desk._ A moment too long. “Is it important?”

Lucius eyed him. “Yesterday?”

Bruce poked his head out into the lobby. Laura hung her coat up and sat at the desk. _No wonder he wants to get in so bad._ He looked behind him again; Jon stuffed the ties into the bag and closed it. “Yeah, sorry. Everything fine?”

“Can I come in?”

“Do you have to?”

“You're going to want me to.”

“Later?”

“You might want to leave work early.”

_Damn!_ He'd still have to dismiss Jon, but Lucius would see him. “I'll follow you to Archives.”

Lucius narrowed his eyes. “You have someone in there.”

“A client.”

“The ChemChem representative?”

“Yes.”

And Lucius  _almost_ bought it, if not for Laura, who said, “It's probably the muffin guy.”

Lucius glared at Bruce. He didn't need to say a word. Reluctantly, Bruce let him inside, shutting the door behind him.

Bruce gestured to Jon. “Lucius, sorry I didn't introduce you last time. This is Jon.”

Jon stood, his coat draped strategically over one arm in front of him, and held out a hand. He'd seen Lucius before, but didn't catch his name. “Nice to meet you again.”

Lucius took the hand, put on his worst fake smile, and shook it. “Nice to finally meet you too. You know, last I saw you, I wondered...are you a...client?”

Jon looked to Bruce for an answer, and didn't find it. “A friend.”

“Ah, it's just that you look _familiar_ ,” said Lucius.

Jon put on a blank face; his act would've been believable if Lucius wasn't Lucius. “Maybe we met before then too. Possibly at a few of Bruce's parties.”

Lucius pointed a trigger-finger at him and chuckled. “That's it. And Bruce certainly has a lot of parties.” He turned his gaze to Bruce. “Not so much lately though.” Addressing Jon again, he asked, “Do you mind if we have the room? I have some privileged client transactions to discuss with Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. “Two minutes, just outside,” he said to Jon.

Jon left, keeping that coat in front of him. When the door closed again, Lucius met Bruce with a hurtful stare.

“You're too close,” Lucius said.

“It was the only way.”

Lucius shook his head. “Befriending that monster is a mistake.”

“He's not a monster anymore.”

Voice stern, Lucius said, “It's a bad idea, Bruce.”

“He trusts me.”

“Well I don't trust him.” Lucius sighed, letting his anger fade during the short break. “Anyway, you were at least right about that biopsy.”

“What is it?”

“It's benign, far as I can tell. Just an ordinary tough lump of skin, but...there were traces of chlorophyll in it.”

“Chlorophyll? As in plants?”

Lucius lowered his voice, uncertain if Crane was listening. “I don't know why your body reacted to it that way, but I also found traces of something else: Crane's formula. Have you had any more of these...things pop up?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good. Seems that your body was just pushing it out through the skin. I can't say for sure, but I talked to a friend of mine at Gotham General about it—key details withheld, of course. He's a dermatologist. You won't believe what he said.”

Bruce's face dipped in curiosity. “What?”

“You remember that supermarket attack? Well, some of those people are his patients now.”

“You say now like—are they showing the same symptoms?”

“It's worse. He said they've got them all over their body. Harmless so far, and removing them seems to do the trick. They manifested a lot faster in those people than they did in you.”

“How come the news didn't pick up on it?”

Lucius shrugged. “The same reason Commissioner Gordon didn't either.”

“You're right. He would've mentioned it.” Bruce thought for a moment, quickly connecting the new information to the old. “So it was definitely a test group,” he said. “Are those the only cases?”

“So far.” Lucius paused. “Do you trust me to remove it?”

“Yeah. Later today.”

Lucius started to leave. “Right. Well, I'll let you get back to your  _guest_ .” He opened the door. “See you, Mr. Wayne.”

Lucius left the door open as he left, and soon Jon appeared. Then, Lucy.

“Hey,” she waved.

“What're you doing here?” Bruce asked.

“I just wanted you to know about Tara,” she said. “She's in the hospital.”

* * *

Gotham General, busy and understaffed. The flow of patients worsened during the winter, between the flu, weather-related accidents, and general depression, the staff just couldn't keep up. Many of them sacrificed their own holiday gatherings, and the lack of morale showed on their faces. That explained why the nurse Lucy approached seemed so flustered.

“I'm sorry, miss,” the nurse said, “but she's under quarantine.”

“Can't we at least see her through a window or something? Wave to her?” Lucy protested.

The nurse looked around. “Fine. Let me page the doctor first. Have a seat.”

Lucy turned around, defeated, and said, “I hate this.”

The three headed to the waiting area and sat down. Bruce handed Jon a newspaper from another chair. The man immediately understood, and opened it for camouflage.

“How'd you find out?” Bruce asked.

“She called Danny from here, and he told me.”

“She checked herself in?”

Lucy shrugged. “I guess.”

Bruce pulled out his phone. “Be right back. Hospital rules.”

He stepped outside and turned on his cell, careful to keep the door close in case anyone spotted Jon. He called Alfred.

“ _Master Bruce?”_

“Alfred. There's a sample in the—” A woman walked by. “Downstairs. I need you to get it to Lucius for testing right away.”

“ _What does it look like?”_

“Dried tea leaves. Tell him to rush it—it's important.”

“ _Always on the job. Too bad it's the wrong time for this one.”_

“Alfred, please?”

“ _Of course.”_

“Thanks.” Bruce hung up and returned to the waiting room, where the nurse stood with Tara's doctor.

“You can't go in, she's under quarantine,” the doctor repeated. He eyed Bruce, recognized him, then like a professional, continued. “However, you may see her. Follow me.”

The group followed the doctor up a floor and down a hallway, then stopped just before a row of rooms with windows.

“Now I must warn you,” the doctor said, “she doesn't look the same.”

“What do you mean?” Lucy asked. “Was she in an accident?”

The doctor furrowed his brows. Tara's case perplexed him, but despite his intrigue, he really had no time to go over the specifics of it with her. “You don't know, do you?”

“I don't,” she said.

“Accidents don't warrant quarantines. It's just her skin,” he said with audible haste. “We're unsure about the cause, hence the quarantine; a precaution only. I'm afraid I can't tell you more.”

Jon didn't care for the prior instructions. “If it is as you claim, it's possible her esteem may be fragile; having her friends see her in this state is likely to cause her deep pain and humiliation.”

“You sound like the psychiatrists on the fourth floor,” the doctor said. “I can assure you that Miss Isley insisted on visitors. It's not my belief that her esteem is at risk at this point in time. Your visit may prove to boost it. I've been hoping someone would come by.”

“That doesn't explain the nurse's reaction,” Lucy said.

“Miss, the winter is a busy season. Our nurses put in more hours a week than most do in two,” he said. “Besides, her adherence to protocol is commendable. Quarantine usually doesn't allow for visitors. Are you ready to see her?”

They nodded.

The doctor led them to the third room on the left. A sign on the room's door explicitly warned for the quarantine. He gestured. “Here she is.”

They looked inside. Tara lay there, watching soaps on a hanging television. Indeed she did not appear the same as they remembered. Her once pale skin had been tinged green, and the vibrant red of her hair had faded to a dull brown. Bruce noticed two visible pocks—one on the arm facing them, and one on her neck.

“My god,” Lucy whispered. She knocked on the window.

Tara turned. As the doctor expected, she smiled and waved. The three waved back.

“No more than a few minutes,” the doctor said. “I'll be at the desk you saw by the elevators when you're done.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said.

Tara motioned for them to come in.

Lucy shrugged and shook her head 'no.'

Tara mouthed, 'Why?'

Lucy checked her head toward the leaving doctor, and proceeded to mime a hoity-toity fellow with an invisible clipboard.

Tara laughed, understanding right away. Pointing to her wrist, she mouthed, 'How much time?'

Lucy pinched the air and replied, 'Not much.'

Tara frowned and shrugged. 'Come back tomorrow?'

Lucy smiled and nodded.

Tara waved. Everyone bid her farewell.

Lucy led them back to the doctor, but stopped them in their tracks as they turned the corner. “Oh my god...” she uttered, quiet. She back-stepped into the the previous hall, pushing them along with her.

“What's wrong?” Bruce asked.

She hit him soft with her arm. “It's that chick from the gala. Can we go around?”

Bruce's internal alarm went off. He peeked around the corner.

Pamela Isley.

No doubt she'd visit her sister. She'd recognize Jon in a heartbeat.

“Yeah, let's do that,” Bruce said.

* * *

“Thanks,” Lucy said, stepping out of Bruce's car.

“No problem,” he said.

“See you tomorrow.” She waved to Jon in the backseat. “Later Dr. Newspaper.”

Jon tried _very_ hard not to laugh. “Good night.”

Bruce drove off once Lucy made it inside her building. Jon made sure to stay low in the car.

“That woman. I've seen her before,” Jon said.

“At the gala?” Bruce pretended.

“No.” Jon bit his lip; it should have been serious, but Bruce still found it awfully sexy. “She's the one who had those pictures.”

“You said the police took care of it.”

“It's complicated. There's more than one player.”

“It's a good thing she didn't see us today.”

Silence. The orange lights of the roadway danced over their faces.

“She did that to Tara.”

_I know_ , Bruce thought. “You want to tell the police?”

“No. They can't fix it.”

“But they can arrest her.”

Jon sighed. “No. She has a friend inside.”

_Anyone you know?_ “You know for sure?”

“She knows my formula. There's no other way for her to know.”

“Only you and the police know what it is.”

Dubious eyes looked at the rear-view. “There's one other.”

_Easy._ “Maybe he sold it to her.”

“It isn't in his character.”

“I don't know about that guy. They say he killed a good friend of mine.”

“Dent? That you think.”

More moments of silence. Bruce entered and exited the highway before Jon continued.

“I'd think you'd remember what he did at your own penthouse.”

“Dent's fundraiser?” Bruce turned down another road. “I remember.”

“I heard a rumour you hid in a panic room.”

_Fix it and change the subject._ “I told Rachel to meet me there. She didn't listen and...” Bruce watched Jon fidget in his seat.  _Good._

“He isn't the one behind this,” Jon said. “He rescued her—twice. It's a dirty cop.”

Bruce parked; they arrived at Jenny's. “At least notify the commissioner. He's looking out for you, right?”

They exited.

“If you insist,” Jon conceded. “Tomorrow.”

Once inside, Jon searched for Jenny, who'd gone off to work. A suggestive smirk brought them to the guest room.

Jon closed the door behind them and pressed up against Bruce. “Shall we continue?”

Bruce answered with an assertive kiss. Very little time remained in the night; he intended to get an early start now that Tara hospitalized herself.

Jon didn't mind the fervor. Within moments, their clothes piled up on the floor. Jon pushed Bruce on his mattress, and straddled him. Bruce sat up, clenching Jon's back, and kissed harder.

“I left your present in my desk,” Bruce whispered in Jon's neck.

“You're a daft man, Bruce Wayne,” Jon said. “It's meant to stay there.” He reached over to his personal supply while Bruce helped him relax his body.

“I thought you said you weren't coming anymore,” Bruce said.

“Mmm, yes, well, I thought you'd know that I was lying.” Jon nipped at Bruce's neck.

A short forever passed; they enjoyed each other's lips and skin as their hands went to work on each other's bodies, readying to make love.

Bruce let out moan as Jon slid onto him, letting the fluctuations and pleasure take over. Jon responded to Bruce's bucking, bouncing in his lap to the rhythm of Bruce's stroking hand. Their movements went into crescendo, the tempo more urgent and in need of the final cadence. Their breaths hot and loud upon each other's necks, they released, slow and sensual movements taking over as tingles spread throughout their bodies. Finally, a partial parting.

Jon let a kiss linger on Bruce's lips before suggesting, “Shower?”

_God, you felt good._ “I can't.”

Jon passed him some tissues. “I see. The life of a corporate man.”

“I'm sorry, Jon.”

Jon stood and moved to his dresser. “I never said I needed you to stay,” he said, stepping into underwear. He eyed a bathrobe hanging on the back of the door.

Bruce stood too and collected his clothes. “I believe you. Have you seen my shirt?”

Lust emanated from Jon's eyes as he took in the entirety of Bruce's finely cut nude form. “I haven't.”

Bruce grinned. “Is that so?”

“It _might_ be behind you,” Jon said. “But there's no rush.”

“I have a feeling that you like me.”

“Why's that? Am I staring?”

“Just a little bit.”

“You couldn't pay me enough not to.”

Bruce stepped forward and held the back of his hand to Jon's forehead. “Feverish? That's the first non-backhanded compliment I think I've heard from you.”

“Maybe you should stay and take care of me,” Jon said, kissing Bruce's cheek.

“Nice try,” Bruce said. He turned around to pick up his shirt, and began dressing. “Soon, once this is all cleared up. We can have a real night.”

Bruce put his arms through the shirt, wondering if they ever really would have that night. So long as crime and corruption existed, so would Batman. A never-ending fight, a Darwinian arms-race. If he gave it up, he'd still know. Reading the paper, watching the news...he could prevent every blurb. To him, it'd be like having change in his pocket and just walking past a homeless person without so much as a first look. Or wearing clothes he knew were manufactured in a country without laws against child-labor and slavery. “I promise.”

Jon's chilling voice replied to him. “Oh, I don't think so,  _Bruce_ .”

“Jon?” Bruce let go of the first button on his shirt. _Something's wrong._ He turned around in his place, finding himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Hands,” said Jon, still barely dressed. “Now. I want to see them.”

Slowly, Bruce raised his hands.  _There's no way._ “Jon, what are you doing? Where did you get that?”

“How _dare_ you,” said Jon, a distinct trembling in his voice. “This entire time, _you knew_. You knew _exactly_ who I was.”

“Jon, I don't know what you're talking about. Please, just put down the gun.” _He's between me and the door. Grip is firm. Might be able to make it._

Jon stayed unyielding as he could by that dresser. “You know what I'm talking about!”

Bruce remained calm. _Be gentle. Drawer handles could hurt his spine._ “Jon, please. I don't have to leave, we can—“

“Stop pretending, _Bat_! I _watched_ Croc give that you bruise. How else could you get something so perfectly square on your back?”

_Damn it!_ Bruce inched forward, but Jon threatened him. He stayed in place.  _Reckless. Completely reckless._ “Jon—“

“You destroyed me, Bat-man. And you have the _gall_ to pretend! You tricked me just for your own case! I _trusted_ you! I _loved_ you! Damn it! If it weren't for that condom, your seed would still be inside me!” Jon re-steadied his aim. “To think I started to believe you were above this. You _have_ to die.”

_My God, did he just say...? What have I done?_ “Jon, I'm not who you think I am.”

“Say it, Bruce! You need to say it.”

Bruce remained quiet, and watched as Jon prepared to pull the trigger. He knew the bullet wouldn't miss.

Milliseconds passed as Bruce swooped in, stepping out of danger and disarming Jon like he'd done with criminals hundreds of times before. The gun landed on the bed. Jon cried out in pain as Bruce crowded him into the dresser, disabling Jon's movements.

_Safe_ , Bruce thought.

“I hate you,” Jon said. Tears welled in his eyes.

“I didn't plan this,” Bruce explained.

Jon refused to meet his eyes, despite their intimate proximity. “How obvious. The resources. The dark past. The disappearances.”

Bruce felt a splash on his arm. He hated keeping his own emotions at bay. “I'm not sorry.”

“You wouldn't be.”

“Jon,” Bruce said in his ear. “This hasn't been pretend.”

“I don't care!” Jon fought, a useless action. “Get off me!”

“I won't let you shoot me.”

“I poisoned you. I set you on fire. I tried to kill your friend.” Jon struggled again—no match for Bruce's strength and technique. “Your body...just...get away. I can't...”

_I'm so sorry, Jon._ “Think of Jenny. Don't let this be the place.”

“You're hurting me,” Jon sobbed. “Let me go.”

Bruce felt Jon ease up.  _He's submitting. He's actually submitting, admitting defeat. How could I let this happen?_ “Isley'll get put away, I promise you.”

“Isley?” Jon choked. He remembered the name the doctor said.

Bruce relieved some of the pressure on Jon. “Her sister.”

“No, stop it.” Jon pushed him away. “ _Get out._ I mean it.” He wiped his eyes. “You have two seconds before I pick that gun up again.”

Bruce grabbed the rest of his clothes, eyes on Jon the whole time, and left.

Jon, a broken mess, slumped the floor. The gun remained where it had landed, tempting Jon with thoughts of hurting Batman, hurting Bruce, hurting everyone—including himself. “How low I must be now,” he said, quiet. “How utterly pathetic, stupid.”

Minute upon minute passed, a discomfort growing in his back. Slowly, he rose, bracing himself on the dresser for support. His legs...his body...he didn't deserve the right to hold himself up now. With one hand, he haphazardly reached for the gun.

“So much for redemption,” he whispered, thumbing the barrel. “So much for sanity.”

Yet something didn't allow him to hold the handle. Cured, perhaps? _No_ , Jon thought. He eased the pressure on the furniture. The strength in his legs would come out, eventually. The shakes of adrenaline would cease.

Survival beckoned Jon to open the drawer, and he saw its reason as he shut it, gun inside.  
  



	11. Coffee - Part 11

“We got witness testimony,” Gordon said. “One of the guests at Wayne’s event ID’d Isley.”

Batman kept watch on the street, perched on Gordon’s porch. “A line-up?”

“Can’t,” Gordon shrugged. “Sister gave up an address, but Isley booked. We think she’s responsible for putting the girl into the hospital.”

“I’m running tests,” Batman said.

“Good.” Gordon looked back into his window. His wife went to bed. “Crane’s right.”

_He is. I’ve destroyed him._ “About?”

“I’ve got a leak. Isley shouldn’t have known we were coming. Can’t confirm who.”

“I’ll find it.”

“Don’t. It has to be me. Damn bureaucracy.”

“I’ll find Isley.”

Gordon remained quiet; he knew Batman had already left.

* * *

A silent Batcave and an angry Alfred greeted Bruce when he returned from his rounds.

“You look awful,” Bruce said, washing his face. “Did you stay up all night?”

The way that Alfred hesitated before he spoke scared Bruce. “Of all of the things you’ve done, Master Bruce—the Princeton parties, giving up your degree to pursue this...this _thing_ you’ve made yourself into, recklessly endangering your life night after night—you do the most unforgivable.”

Bruce felt a regression to his former self, that same child that urged his father to escape a harmless opera. Slowly, he lifted his face from the sink, patting down the water droplets with a soft towel. He couldn’t face Alfred. “Alfred, I—”

“No, sir. _No_ excuses. You lied to me once about that vulgar piece of human before. Just a friendly dinner?” Alfred’s face reddened; Bruce knew the man attempted to contain what rage he could. “ _That_ I understood, sir, even if I didn’t agree with it.”

“Lucius told you.”

“Lucius Fox has and always will be a friend of this family, and a friend of mine. I trust his word.”

Bruce swallowed. “Just a meeting, Alfred. He thinks we’re friends.” ‘’

“Lying again?” Alfred posed. “Because a person that thinks you’re ‘just friends’ doesn’t bring you a bag lunch packed with prophylactics and pictures of the two of you together. He damn near caught the two of you in the act now, didn’t he!”

None of what Alfred said mattered anyway. Bruce couldn’t see any way of continuing his scandalous affair with Dr. Jonathan Crane. “You two broke into my office.”

“No different from the breaking and entering you commit on a nightly basis, all in the name of good.” Alfred got close. “You ought to have told me from the beginning, Master Bruce. You should know that you can always confide in me.”

Bruce finally looked up at Alfred. “And what would you have said?”

“The same as your parents.”

“I know what they would’ve said. They’ve told me for weeks.”

“Master Bruce?”

“The toxin,” Bruce said. “They...they hated me, Alfred. Hated me for everything. The cowl, the company...I only made it worse by being attracted to...”

Alfred put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Your parents would have understood, had they been through this with you from the beginning, as would I.” He squeezed gently. “But you went ahead without us. I knew your parents well; they never would have judged you, never would have thought of you as anything less than their beloved son. It’s this...situation. This particular man of interest.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Of course it is, Master Bruce, but I’m willing to listen.”

“You seem pretty angry to me.”

“The great Batman fears none but his butler?” Alfred joked.

Bruce let out a long-held breath. “I’d bet money on you sabotaging breakfast.”

“You’d be a winner then, sir.” Alfred smiled. “Bit of stale bread upstairs. I could turn it into French toast, if you’d like. After you get some sleep, of course.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

Alfred patted him. “Right, now let’s get you upstairs. Think I’ll get a bit of a shut-eye myself, if you don’t mind. Miss Dawes haunted my dreams last night.”

“Good thing I ran this by her.”

“Oh?” Alfred appeared happy. “That’s good to hear, Master Bruce.” He waved him toward the elevator. “Into the lift. I want to hear all about this complicated situation when you wake up.”

* * *

Lucius placed a small bandage on Bruce’s thumb, then flattened the adhesive flaps with his fingertips.

“You’re set.”

“Thanks Lucius.” Bruce reached into his coat and pulled out a small vile of green liquid. “Check this against the sample Alfred brought you.”

Lucius took the bottle and tipped it, checking the viscosity. “What is it? Moves like blood.”

“I think it _is_ blood,” said Bruce. “Tara Isley’s. I think her sister did this to her with that tea.”

“That makes...sense,” Lucius said, adding with a mumble, "if anything like this is supposed to make sense." He walked around the table and picked up a folder. “But I suppose with that I’ve found, it works. There’s some interesting links between those leaves, Crane’s formula, and the biopsy of that little bump we just removed.”

“This is worse than acne. Tara’s skin was green and her was brown and stringy.”

Disbelief. “You mean to tell me that she’s turning _into_ a _plant_?”

“I don’t want to believe it myself, but it definitely looks that way.”

Lucius grumbled. “Looks like I’m making a call or two to Gotham General.”

Bruce looked at him. “Checking on those other victims?”

“You better damn well believe it.”

* * *

It’d been ages since Bruce graced the mail room with his presence. Truth be told, he hated the idea that he didn’t know everyone’s name, but between the Bat, sleep, paperwork, and boring board meetings, he just didn’t have time to visit. He had to prioritize.

He didn’t have time today either. His main concern was to keep Laura away from the mail. That was her job, to separate and open his mail. This item was for Bruce’s eyes only, and Laura barely paid attention to that detail on other packages, so why would she on this one? Still, he couldn’t take the risk.

Bruce knocked on the nearest countertop. A young mail clerk stopped sorting, and looked at him. Recognition lit up his eyes.

“Mr. Wayne!” he said. “Can I help you with something?”

Bruce held out his hand. “What’s your name?”

The clerk took it and shook. “Ricky, sir.”

“Ricky, nice to meet you,” said Bruce. He looked around at the others in the busy mailroom. “I’ve come to personally pick up my mail today. I’m expecting an important letter from a friend, and I’m kind of impatient. You know, a party invitation. Pretty exclusive.” He winked. “It’s sort of hush-hush—you know how reporters are—but I think I can trust you.” He flashed the kid a smile.

Ricky took a second to let Bruce’s words sink in. “Oh, right away! I’ll go get your pile from the cart.”

“Thanks.”

Ricky raced off into an area with several mail carts, most filled and ready for delivery.

_Made it just in time_ , Bruce thought.

Ricky returned with a six-inch high stack. Spam-mail magazines, some official looking letters, and one large, yellow envelope that caught Bruce’s eye.

“Here you are, sir,” Ricky said, passing the mail off. “I didn’t see any invitation-sized envelopes in there. I’m sorry.”

Bruce casually flipped through the mail. He had what he needed. “Don’t worry about it, Ricky.”

“Sometimes the mail is a day or two late. Especially if anything suspicious happens near a Federal building.” Ricky’s nerves settled a bit; he knew mail. “That hold-up at the post-office last week had it delayed for two days while authorities tried to figure out what happened. It didn’t take long because Bat—I mean, they caught the guy, so now the mail is only delayed a day. I think it should be caught up by tomorrow. I’ll keep an eye out.”

_Fast, efficient, knows his stuff, attentive._ Bruce nodded. “Thanks for the info, Ricky. I appreciate it.”

“Of course, sir.”

Bruce waved. “Keep up the good work,” he said, leaving. He walked back to the elevators, pressed the “up” button, and waited with two others. A sizable crowd, presumably from the parking level below, welcomed him into the small space. He pressed the button to his floor and watched the doors close.

One of the passengers grunted. “Good morning, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce looked to his side to see his favorite board member. “Good morning, Lawrence.”

Lawrence grumbled and stared straight ahead, fully intent on keeping the ride up awkward. The moment was short. As Bruce perused his mail again, the elevator reached the second floor, which had several conference rooms. All but Bruce filtered out. Bruce nodded politely to Lawrence, and as the doors closed, his attention just happened to shift upward to the security camera.

The red light was off. A small but noticeable scratch crossed the area next to it. It had been disabled. Security didn’t know yet, or had been disabled themselves. _Distracted? Harmed?_

Not everyone had left the elevator.

A foot landed behind Bruce’s knee, sending him and his mail to the ground. Bruce got up quick and faced his attacker. Jonathan Crane glared back. Bruce elbowed Crane in the jaw, sending him back a few steps. Crane let out a groan and jumped for him.

The elevator slowed to a stop. The men dropped their hands to their sides as a soft _ding_ heralded the opening of the doors. A suited woman stepped inside and smiled at them both before pressing the button for her floor and proceeding to ignore them.

Bruce readied himself, anticipating a jab from Crane the moment the woman left.

The woman didn’t seem to notice the mail spilled in the corner.

The elevator stopped again. She stepped off.

Bruce dodged Crane’s attack and sent him into the wall, his arm pressed up against Crane’s chest. Crane kneed Bruce in the groin, a painful attack that Bruce tried to brush aside. Crane’s fist landed on Bruce’s jaw. Bruce found the force neither weak nor strong, but certainly surprising.

Bruce decided to fight defensively. Getting bloodied up and hurting Crane was not on his agenda.

They felt the lurch in their stomachs as the elevator slowed again. They straightened their ties just in time.

_Ding!_

The doors opened. A woman with a breakfast-food cart smiled at them.

“Oh, sorry!” she said. “Don’t think there’s enough room for me in there, do you?”

“No,” Crane said.

The woman smiled again. “Didn’t think so. I’ll catch the next one over. Thanks guys.”

Bruce smiled back. The smell of coffee from her cart seemed ironic to him; how strange that they would shove aside the very beverage that brought them together. He checked the floor number as the doors closed. _Almost there._

Bruce blocked another blow from Crane and retaliated. A rather gentle warning smack hit Crane’s ribs. Crane let out a tiny whimper and launched himself at Bruce; using the entirety of his weight in this small space complicated the fight enough to make it irritating. The hand-railing on the wall dug into the bruise on Bruce’s back. He let out a tight breath, trying hard not to let Crane know he’d been hurt, then tossed him back, looking for a way to restrain him.

The elevator slowed again.

_Ding!_

Knowing this stop was the last, Crane stepped out of the elevator first and caught his breath. Bruce quickly picked up the scattered mail from the floor and joined him.

“Laura,” Bruce said. “No calls or visitors, please. Take messages.” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. He opened his door wide, giving Jon allowance to get inside. He felt confident that Crane wouldn’t take this close opportunity to attack again. Bruce waited for Crane to get a few paces into the office before he stepped in himself and shut the door.

The lock _clicked_.

The fight resumed. Bruce let the mail drop to the floor again as he caught Crane’s punch. Crane’s foot slid across a sailing magazine, tearing a page from its binding. The momentum of the slip nearly brought Bruce down, so he let go of Crane and steadied himself. Crane didn’t quite hit the ground. He made another lunge at Bruce and grappled him at his waist. Bruce, not wanting to hurt Crane, restrained himself, a mistake that allowed Crane to hurl him into his desk. Pens, papers, and his nameplate crashed to the ground.

Crane put his weight on Bruce’s waist and pummeled him, but Bruce deflected until he found an opening to stop him. Enough was enough. Shady or not, Laura might get suspicious and call the police.

Bruce took control and sat up, twisting the two of them until it was Crane who was wedged between a person and a desk. Crane’s arms were now lax, unbent, and in a restricted cross between them. Bruce pressed against him so tightly that Crane could not free his arms, and since Crane’s arms were not bent, they lacked the lever action to pry away.

The struggle ended. Jon’s nostrils flared, his face red as he huffed and puffed his anger away enough to speak.

“Why are you here?” Bruce asked his scorned lover.

Jon inhaled a shaky breath. “I haven’t forgiven you.”

“That implies that you eventually will.”

“I won’t.” Jon tried to stomp on Bruce’s foot, but found his legs were restrained too.

They stared at each other between wriggles, heat between them apparent. Bruce repeated mantra after don’t-kiss-Jon mantra in his mind. How easy it would be to solve this with sex. How easy it would be to complicate things even more.

“Why are you here?” Bruce asked again.

Jon finally stopped fighting. He hated knowing how much insurmountable power Bruce had. “Let me go first.”

“So it wasn’t just to fight.”

Begrudgingly, Jon replied, “No.”

Bruce relaxed his hold, but stayed stationary. A brief glimmer of fondness shone in Jon’s eyes. Their faces stayed close to each other. Noses touched cheekbones.

“Are you hurt?” Bruce murmured.

Jon knew Bruce meant physically, not emotionally, but answered for the latter anyway. “I can’t look at you with this face.”

“I think you left a bruise.”

Jon stepped to the side. He meant it—he couldn’t reconcile the idea that Bruce was Batman. “There is a leak in Gordon’s force. I found it.”

Back to business. “You have a name?” Bruce asked.

“An old Arkham contact. Used to forge identities.”

“An inmate?”

Jon looked at him, blank. “An _employee_. My former assistant. Benjamin Floyd. Said they did some work recently.”

Bruce raised a brow in suspicion. “They offered the information up to you, just like that?”

“He’s a chatty drunk,” Jon said. “He seemed to be an obvious source, so I took advantage. Better than _beating_ the answer out of him.”

Bruce ignored Jon’s snide comment. “And he mentioned doing work for someone in the Gotham PD.”

“Well aren’t you the brilliant detective?”

_Laura_. Bruce walked over and picked up his mail. Partial footprints rubbed off on his fingertips. He dropped all but the yellow envelope off on his desk.

Jon scoffed. “I bring you a lead and you decide it’s time to see if you won a Florida vacation?”

Bruce tore open the envelope from the temp agency and read its contents. Quietly, he said, “I ordered a background check on one of my employees.”

Curiosity piqued, Jon stepped next to Bruce. He nodded to the office door. “Her?”

Bruce passed the cover letter and looked at the second page. It contained a full report on Laura McCall’s last seven years of employment, the results of her drug test, and credit history.

“Seems they broke protocol by sending that to you.”

“I found a clause that said otherwise.” He flipped to the next page, which included a scan of Laura’s driver’s license and her former addresses. He looked closely at the photo on the license.

“You’ve been had,” Jon said, chuckling.

Bruce walked around his desk and put the papers in a secure drawer. “Your contact. Did he mention doing work here?”

“No,” Jon said. “I didn’t ask.”

“Would you recognize his work if you saw it?”

Jon crossed his arms. “It’s been years. I might.”

“I’ll bring it by tonight.”

“Now we know who took those pictures.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Bruce looked at Jon. “Thank you, Jon.”

“This is for Tara. I still haven’t forgiven you,” Jon said. He turned around, unlocked the door, and left.

Bruce sat down at his desk and opened up his email. Human resources. Maybe this Ricky would like to be his new assistant.


	12. Coffee - Part 12 (The End)

Batman rarely got to sit in on police interrogations anymore, not since he roughed up the Joker and became a wanted criminal himself.

This particular one took place in prison. Waylon Jones, also known as Killer Croc, couldn’t be trusted to be brought back to the station for anything proper.

The guards didn’t like leaving Commissioner Jim Gordon alone in the room with the crook. Little did they know that Gordon was protected. Batman would intervene if necessary. For now, the Bat did nothing more than observe.

“Whaddya want, Gordon?” Croc said, brushing lint from his XXL jumpsuit. “I’m already here, and I already answered your questions.”

“Not all of our questions,” Gordon said. “We know you were working for Isley. Where’s she hiding?”

Croc grunted. “Hiding? She’s not on the run.”

“Jed ‘Ice’ Eiseman’s cracking. He cut a deal with the DA. Told us all about your side of the operation.”

“Bastard. Knew he was no good.”

“He’s paying his debt to society in the form of testimony and jail time. You give us Isley and testify, the DA might look kindly on you too.”

“Forget it, it’s too late anyway. I’d rather rot in here than give you the satisfaction.”

Gordon set his hands on the table. “Too late for what?”

Croc grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Gordon restrained his anger and left the room. Batman lurked behind. Door buzzers and faint whoops from prisoners echoed throughout the musty halls. Once they were alone, they spoke.

“Croc knows her plan,” Batman said.

“That’s the end of the road with him. We won’t be able to crack him, and he knows it.”

“Let me try.”

Gordon shook his head. “No way. Last thing we need is for his attorney to get his case thrown out.”

“Here.” Batman handed him an envelope. “Laura McCall, Bruce Wayne’s secretary. A temporary hire.”

Gordon regarded the papers with vague interest. “What’s her story?”

“That’s not the woman working in Wayne’s office.”

Gordon’s interest increased. “Stolen identity?”

“Perhaps.”

“Which begs the question,” Gordon said, “where’s the real Laura McCall?”

“Crane’s somewhat cooperative. Mentioned an old employee, a forger named Benjamin Floyd.”

“I know the name.” Gordon sighed. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised you found the safe house. But why would they tail Bruce? To get a lead on Jonathan Crane?”

“It’s possible.”

“I’ll have some officers bring in Floyd.”

“Careful.”

Gordon pushed up his glasses. “You think he did work for one of them?”

“It’s possible.”

“We gotta get some headway here.” Gordon looked down at the report Batman gave him, and spotted something. “We might not need Floyd yet after all.”

“Remember something?”

It surprised Gordon that Batman hadn’t left yet. “Yeah, the name of the temp agency. We’d hired a file clerk from them at the start of this whole mess.”

“It’s a good lead.”

“But how’d she get access to—”

Nope. Gordon heard it that time. Batman left.

* * *

_Le Café_ was barren when Bruce showed up. Lucy, groggy, approached the counter and began pouring his coffee. Bags hung low beneath her eyes.

“Good Morning, Lucy,” he said. “How’s Tara?”

“Better, I think. I’m allowed to call her. I guess she still has that whole, you know, thing going on, but her mood’s better.” She yawned. “People around here are dropping like flies. You know you haven’t been in for two days?”

“I know. Sorry about that. Will two dozen muffins make it up to you?” Bruce leaned in and smiled.

She shrugged and unfolded two muffin boxes. “Can’t hurt.”

“Toss a few of those blueberry ones in there. Skip the raspberry.”

She scrunched her nose at him. “Why? You always get raspberry.”

“My least-favorite board member loves it.”

Lucy let out a snicker. “No raspberry.” She grabbed another muffin, the wax paper in her fingers crinkling. “I’ve been thinking.”

_Not about Jon again._ “What’s that?” Bruce asked.

“Am I annoying? Is that why everyone’s stopped coming?”

“Are you annoying?”

“What, do you want me to repeat myself?” she stated quickly.

“I don’t know why anyone would find you annoying.”

“Well, now and then, I guess,” she closed the lid on the first box of muffins, “I’ve been told that I’m snarky, or that my blunt attitude is a turn-off. I just thought, hey, I should be a strong, assertive woman.”

“That’s what I think of you,” Bruce replied.

“Good answer,” she said.

“Can I add another coffee?” _For Lucius_ , Bruce thought.

“Sure.” Lucy put the stack of two on the counter and poured the second coffee. “Maybe it’s hard to explain. I just think that sometimes, people have to transfer their own judgements about themselves onto other people. And it’s been happening so much to me lately that I’m starting to think that they’re right.”

“They’re not. Don’t let it get to you.”

Lucy handed him the coffees in a carry tray. “Thanks, Bruce. I just miss Tara. She balances all those jerks out. And thanks for coming. Maybe you could do it more often?”

Bruce smiled. Old Lucy was back. “Everything will get back to normal soon. I promise.”

“Great. Pay please.” She held out her hand.

“Of course.”

* * *

“Hhmph,” Lawrence whined. “No raspberry.”

The board settled into their chairs. The air conditioner kicked on for some unknown reason. Most groaned and tightened their blazers.

“Some building, Wayne,” Lawrence said.

Lucius gave Bruce a look. Inwardly, they laughed at the absurdity of letting Lawrence get to them.

_Knock knock knock._

Bruce looked at the door to the conference room, just as a young man’s head popped in.

“Um, Mr. Wayne? Sorry to bother you. But the police are heading up to your office.”

Bruce and Lucius exchanged another look. “If you’ll excuse me,” Bruce said. “Lucius, mind speaking for me?”

“Can do, Mr. Wayne,” the man answered.

Bruce caught up with the young man at the elevator. “Did they say what it was about?” he asked him.

“No, but I think they’re going to arrest someone,” the young man answered.

Both elevators opened up. The two split, and Bruce travelled alone to his office.

He stepped out to see the shock on Laura’s face as an officer arrested her. Miranda Rights were read.

Commissioner Gordon caught sight of Bruce. “Mr. Wayne, good to see you.”

Bruce falsified his shock. “What’s going on? What’d she do? Is it a crime to play solitaire while working?”

“All joking aside, Mr. Wayne, but we’re arresting this woman for impersonating one Laura McCall.”

“That’s not Laura?” Bruce asked. _Thanks for following the lead, Jim._

“That’s one of the charges,” said Gordon.

The officers hauled “Laura” away. Wrath burned in her eyes.

“Wow,” said Bruce. “Guess I’ve got to find another assistant for a while.”

“Any idea why anyone would want to fake their way into this job?”

Bruce shrugged. “No idea. Money, I guess?”

Gordon continued. “Any reason why you hired a temp?”

“Ally had to go on maternity leave, and needed a little extra time.”

Gordon arched a brow. “And you pay them well?”

_I paid Ally well. And I’ll pay Ricky well too._ “Well,” Bruce laughed, “well enough, I guess. I don’t know anything about payroll.”

“Alright,” Gordon said. “Mind if we take a look around her desk? We’ll need a statement from you too.”

“No problem,” Bruce agreed. _One more down. Isley’s next._

* * *

“Bruce.”

“Who are you?”

“Bruce, it’s me, your father. Take my hand. We’ll exit through the alleyway. It will be fine.”

“Come on, Bruce, listen to your father. It will be safe.”

“No, don’t leave! We can stay in the theatre!”

“It’s fine. We’ll go out and see Jonathan. We’ll invite him to dinner. Just come to the alley.”

_BANG!_

“No!”

“It’s okay Bruce.”

“Rachel?”

“Go see Jonathan.”

“He tried to hurt you.”

“And I forgave him.”

“We forgave him, son. And we forgive you.”

“Don’t say that. I got you killed!”

“Everything will be fine. Just go turn on the TV.”

“What?”

“Turn on the TV.”

Room, out of focus.

“Bruce, turn on the TV.” A sigh. “Never mind. I’ll do it.”

A soft glow illuminated the room. Bruce rubbed his eyes and lifted his back from the couch. “Lucius?”

The older man smiled at him. “Who else? Now watch.”

The reporter on screen reminded viewers that their regularly scheduled programming was on hold while they covered the hostage situation down at the pier.

Bruce sat up. “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” He moved for his coat.

“No one could find you, Mr. Wayne. You’d told everyone you were leaving early today.”

Bruce shrugged his jacket over his shoulders. “Who’s inside?”

“Ravers, actually,” said Lucius. “Suspects pulled up in an electric car, since towed by the police.”

_Isley._ “I need to go.” He was already to the door.

“The other victims are fine,” Lucius said from across the room. “What they were dosed with wasn’t potent enough.”

“You think she’s dosing the ravers?”

“Considering the environment, at least a few of those kids are gonna be hit.”

“Not all ravers are users.”

“Even one victim is more than we want to see.” Lucius gave him a stern look. “But if she uses the same methods of distribution as your... _friend_ used to use, then that number’s going up, user or not.”

Bruce nodded his thanks and dashed away.

* * *

Batman perched on a support beam in the center of the warehouse. Outside, blue and red lights flashed, while inside, pink and green strobed. The music made the beams shake, but no one was dancing.

Men with guns and gas masks guarded groups of kids, who were all plastered to the ground, quaking with fear. Pamela Isley stood at the DJ’s booth, the DJ cowering at her feet.

“Disgusting,” she said, kicking a plastic red cup out at a group of kids. Amber liquid sloshed out of the careening cup. She peered out into the crowd. “And that water bottle! George, empty it on his head. He’ll be needing it.”

Her lackey followed her gaze, found the kid clutching the bottle, then did as commanded. The kid cringed and cried as George humiliated him.

‘ _He’ll be needing it,’_ Batman thought. _She’s going to turn them all._ But he couldn’t take her out yet. The men might fire, and any stray bullets would put the kids in danger. _There has to be a device somewhere._ He still hadn’t found that yet.

He crept along the beam, avoiding the areas where the lights strobed. So far, he could see nothing in the ceiling. _The guns._ They looked ordinary as well. No extra attachments, no modifications.

Isley strutted around the stage, kicking and cursing anything considered environmentally unsound. The green and pink lights gave her red hair and green coat a cartoonish look. “As much as I detest you, I do recognize the need to tell you your fates. Soon you will all be my darlings, and a mother must love her saplings.”

_She’s holding something. A switch. A detonator?_ He had to get close, maybe destroy the lights, sweep in and take her out before she could detonate. Or reverse the process, sweep in first, kill the lights and keep the men from firing. _Still too dangerous._ Batman crawled over the stage for a better look at the fog machines. _They don’t have the power of an aerosol, but it’s a possibility._

The megaphone outside sounded. Commissioner Gordon reminded the crooks that the building was surrounded, and to come out peacefully.

_If she’s got Crane’s formula, there won’t be any peace. It will be the Narrows all over again._ He disconnected the fog machines from their power sources. The ones down below still billowed smoke over the crowd. It occurred to him that he was wearing a gas mask, as were the lackeys, but Isley didn’t have anything to cover her face. He could not see anything concealed beneath her collar or hair.

_She is immune?_

A glimmer of hope. An antidote, somewhere. _There has to be._ No way would she willingly dose herself with the toxin.

Something behind the stage rigging moved.

_SWAT?_ He moved closer, studying both the extension cords and the place he neared as he crawled.

_Jon!_ The former doctor was alone, sneaking around, trying not to be seen. He was not a captive, and he was not here to help Isley. _He thinks he can stop her._ _He is going to get himself killed, or turned._

“Would someone kill this dreadful music?” Isley whined. She kicked the DJ. “Do it.”

_I have a moment._ He swooped down to Jon, clasped one hand over his mouth and the other around his waist, before darting silently into the shadows.

Once Jon saw who interrupted his prowling, he stopped fighting.

“You know where the formula is,” Batman said quietly.

Jon nodded, scowling. “I was nearly there.”

“You were nearly dead.”

Batman grabbed him again, then brought him up into the rafters and set him on a beam. _Won’t get down from here._ “Stay.”

Back to the machine nearest Jon. If he wasn’t lying—and Batman suspected he wasn’t, since he seemed so angry to have been interrupted—this was the one loaded with the formula. Disguised enough to pass as a normal fog machine—perhaps assumed to be a newer or older model—but to Batman’s trained eye, clearly different from the others.

Disabling it was easy. Snatching the formula inside was easier. A series of small, pocketable capsules, not the liquid found at party stores. _For Lucious._ _Isley next._ Once Isley discovered her formula was gone, she would likely try to escape, or punish her captives. Batman leaned more toward the latter. Psychopaths don’t like being defied, and Isley already took offense to the waste of the rave.

But how would her men react? No doubt they followed her for a reason. Fear? Love? Was she a good leader behind the scenes, or a terrifying one? If she were to go, he had no way of knowing how they’d handle it.

The music died. _No noise._ Now the only sounds providing any sort of cover were the police’s attempts at negotiation. _Gordon will negotiate as long as it takes._ The commissioner would not let the lives of any children be at stake. Not that Batman would either. But it also meant no attempts at breaching the building for rescue. Batman had to decrease the stakes. Get the guns away, force the men right into the hands of the Gotham PD.

A cough. From the beam where Jon sat. Not that he could blame Jon for being unable to hold it in, but now it meant death.

One of Isley’s men pointed his gun up. “Ivy!”

“Oh, that’s a terrible place for a scarecrow,” she said. “They’re supposed to be down in the fields, scaring away all the dark birds from the crops.” She laughed. “Shoot him.”

Batman took out the first man. Unavoidable if he wanted to save lives. Even if he had to face Jon’s death, Jon would tumble into the kids and maybe break someone else’s neck. _One gun down._

At least the guns were on him now, but the nerves of the men were on edge. The scene became an unpredictable bomb.

“Ivy! Ivy!” George shouted. “Which one?”

“Both of them!” Angry, she swept off the stage and made for her device. It flew toward the DJ when she discovered how empty it was.

Another man down, another gun gone. Bullets fired, some rapid, some not, the sound not the familiar _ratta-tat-tat_ of gangster movies. Ravers screamed, scrambled. Some even made it to the door.

Batman sent himself skyward, back into the safety of the shadows. He clipped down beam after beam and dove into the fray again, joining a melee of angry kids wrestling two armed thugs.

Batman snagged the guns, shoved a kid for his own safety, and took out the men.

Chaos had a name that night, and it was the fray that plagued the warehouse.

Commissioner Gordon must’ve ordered the Gotham PD inside. Armed and shielded men encroached on the space. Everyone forgot about Jon in the rafters, everyone but Jon and Batman.

Ivy ran with cheetah-like speed and grace toward a back exit, which she realized at the last moment would no doubt be flooded with Gordon’s force. Her moment of hesitation put her into Batman’s sights. She back-stepped into him, and then...

She became a red-and-green present for Gordon.

* * *

He found Jon hanging out in the back of a firefighter’s van, wrapped in a blanket, in one of many staging areas made for the massive crowd.

“You’re not very quiet for a living shadow,” Jon said coldly.

Batman kept himself in the shadows, careful to stand in a puddle made by the heat of the van instead of the snow. “You coughed.”

“Because no one cleans rafters, Bat. Once you get dust in your throat, you can’t really help it.”

Officers passed them without so much as noticing Jon’s guest.

“Jon, come with me.”

“Breaking cover, I see.” He gave him a sideways glare, then said, “No. I told you. I can’t look at you with that face.”

“Let’s change that.”

Batman lifted him into his arms, ignoring Jon’s protests. Jon didn’t mean them anyway; he went limp almost immediately, confused over the mix of anger and the returning feeling of having Bruce hold him.

* * *

His lair, his Batcave, seemed unusually soothing tonight. Winter often made it even cooler than normal, and the water was starting to freeze, but he’d found a way to keep an area of it warm, even if it was rather expensive to maintain. _Isley would not approve of this space._

“So this is where you run your operation from,” said Jon, snidely. He adjusted his scarf. “Fitting. You do know I don’t care for bats, don’t you?”

He cringed, swearing he just saw a bat swoop down for his head. Yet this was just a feeling, a terror brought on by paranoia. No bat attacked. The only bat in this cave was the one who carried him in.

“Come on,” Batman said, leading him toward the sink. He lifted his cowl, disabling the electric current, then stopped before removing it completely. He removed his gauntlets, then took Jon’s freezing hands into his own.

Jon eyed Batman warily, wondering what he meant to do with those hands. It was only moments until he knew what was happening. An exercise, a way to face his fear safely, on his own terms. His hands turned to ice, and his breathing hitched. _This is just a puzzle,_ Jon thought. _I’m just removing pieces instead of fitting them together. Erasing what I wrote in the crossword because it was wrong._

Batman raised Jon’s palms to his cowl, showing him where to lift. He let go. _You can do this, Jon,_ thought Batman.

Shaking and cold, Jon mulled it over, hoping to rationalize with his fear. He couldn’t deny that he wanted Bruce back, but he could not kiss him while he was in this fear-inducing, ridiculous garb. As it was, it was hard for him not to recall that grotesque face and the oozing black muck of his hallucination, the one that made him so mad. _It_ is _ridiculous, though,_ Jon reminded himself. _Just a mask._

He inched closer, then recoiled. “I...I can’t.”

Batman held Jon’s hand again and kissed his palm. Jon half-expected to find his hand covered in the tar-like substance of his nightmares.

_I can do this,_ thought Jon. _Damned be the Bat-man._ He knew he’d need more work, and maybe he’d have to do even more crosswords every day, but of all the steps in the world to take, this one would surely be the easiest, wouldn’t it? He was safe here.

Slowly, he lifted the cowl, taking away Batman’s first layer, revealing Bruce. But it wasn’t over yet.

Bruce nodded at the sink.

Jon wet and soaped the cloth, knowing this was the final step. Washing the muck away. The grease paint, really, the final mask, no more than the stuff children use at Halloween. But it meant so much more to him, to do this. To blur the lines between Bruce and Batman for himself, even if Bruce had trouble with it at times. He suspected then, perhaps, that he might be wrong again. Maybe Bruce and Batman were the same person.

“I held a gun to you,” he said, trembling. Hot tears moistened his eyes. He used to do much worse to people, for what? Money? Power?

“I left you in the rafters.”

“I set you on fire.”

“I lied to you.”

“You were right to lie to me,” Jon said. “I tried to kill your friend.”

“Yes.” Jon had a point. Bruce was about to let him in, something he never could quite do. Even though it was Jon himself who made the discovery, Bruce could’ve done anything to keep his secret a secret. Threatened Jon. Made him unable to speak again. Anything. Instead, he chose to take it deeper. There was a man behind Jon’s mask, a man who, like Bruce, had been lost at some point in life and buried beneath some kind of trauma.

“Jon...” He closed his eyes.

Jon put the cloth to Bruce’s face and began to cleanse him of the black mask, slowly uncovering the man he loved beneath. Gray water spiraled down the drain as he rinsed, scrunched, and re-soaked the cloth. He took the darkness from every pore, every crease.

And then, the Bat was gone.

They kissed then, gentle, lacking ferocity, their connection containing apology after silent apology. Man to man, unmasked.

When they parted, Bruce said, “I could use some help around here. Have you ever done any profiling?”

Jon smirked. “What do you think shrinks do all day?”

Bruce beamed at him. “Should I answer that question?”

“Maybe not. What’s the pay? At least six figures, I hope.”

“Six letters.”

Jon nuzzled him. “Fine. But I’m particular to a certain place. _Le Café_. We should go sometime.”

Bruce kissed his cheek. “We should.”

~ End ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone at FFN and LJ who've supported this fic and waited patiently for me to finally get it updated over the years. You are all amazing. I hope having it here on AO3 will make accessing it easier for everyone.
> 
> Thank you to AO3 for having such a wonderful site. Exporting this directly from LJ to here has been so easy. I am so thankful to have a space like this, where creativity is not just fostered, but protected, and works are easy to manage. This place is a godsend. Thank you!
> 
> -JV


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